PS 


THE  1  .IBRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CALIFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


THE 


P  0  Q  M  S  *£• 


OF  


FIRST     EDITION. 


UAITINGFRS    FALLS,   N       V. 

FRED  W.  COKSON,  THE  CHRONICLE  PKIN'I1. 
1886. 


Entered   according  to   act   of    Congress,  in   the  year  1886, 

by  DAVID  MOORE,  in  the  office  of  the  Librarian 

of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


IP  3 


* 


0uTH0R's  PREFACE. 


IN  PRESENTING  this  little  volume  of  Poemjs  to  the 
public,  the  Author  will  not  seek  to  extenuate  the  im 
perfections  which  they  may  contain,  but  would  simply 
state  that  they  have  been  written  under  the  most  ad 
verse  conditions. 

Amid  the  rush  and  roar  of  steam  in  front  of  the 
huge  boilers,  ready,  at  his  post,  to  feed  the  greedy 
flames  which  devour  the  shining  coal  as  fast  as  it  can 
be  thrown  to  them,  as  they,  in  turn,  by  generating 
steam,  feed  and  set  in  motion  all  the  whirling  ma 
chinery  of  the  vast  hive  of  busy  workers. 

Here,  day  after  day,  year  after  year,  from  boy 
hood  up,  the  Author  has  spent  his  time  ia  toil,  and 
here  the  gentle  Muse  has  deigned  to  stay  her  dainty, 
lingering  steps,  and  whisper  to  him  of  other  scenes, — • 
of  flowers  that  bloom,  and  birds  that  sing,  of  rippling 
streams,  and  dewy  meads,  and  all  the  varied  beauties 
of  Nature, — and  he,  listening  to  her  voice,  has  sought 
to  weave  all  into  poetry  and  song. 

He  does  not  expect  nor  desire  to  escape  the  criti 
cism  which  he  may  deserve,  but  in  presenting  these 
few  poems,  crude  though  they  may  be,  he  will  cheer 
fully  abide  by  whatsoever  decision  his  readers  may  see 
fit  to  render. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


764041 


#  P  0  &  M  8 .  * 


MA  Y  MUSINGS. 


Here,  on  this  slope,  where  the  sweet-scented  (lowers 
Are  nodding  their  heads  in  the  breezes  of  May. 

Reclining,  I  muse,  while  the  joy-freighted  hours, 
Are  dreamily,  drowsily,  passing  away. 

Grand  is  the  view  which  before  me  uprises 

Of  stern,  rugged  mountain,  and  green  sloping  plain. 

The  eye  is  delighted  with  pleasant  surprises, 

And  seeks  for  new  beauties,  and  seeks  not  in  vain. 

Here,  Nature  has  strewn  her  most  beautiful  treasures, 

Her  richest  possessions  are  clustering  here, 
And  bright-plumaged  songsters  trill  their  sweet  measures, 

Which  ring  through  the  grove,  and  vibrate  on  the  ear. 

Here  the  blue  violets  of  Spring  grow  the  fairest, 

The  grass  springs  the  greenest,  the  daises  bloom  best; 

Here  can  be  seen  both  the  richest  and  rarest 
Of  sunsets,  when  "Sol"  has  descended  the  West. 

The  low,  gentle  murmur  of  cool  waters  falling, 
Comes  echoing  up,  thro'  the  green  leafy  lanes,     _ 

Brown  bees  are  humming,  and  birds  softly  calling, 
And  Nature  looks  fresh  since  the  soft,  gentle  rains. 

Down  through  the  green  boughs  the  sunlight  is  showering 
And  weaving  fantastic  designs  on  the  ground, 

While  through  the  great  pines  so  loftily  towering 
The  South  wind  is  whispering  with  heart-cheering  sound. 

The  bleating  of  lambs  from  the  hill-side  is  floating, 

Up  from  the  vale  comes  the  lowing  of  kine, 
A  boy  in  yon  field  is  steadfastly  ploughing. 

And  marking  his  furrows  as  straight  as  a  line. 


6  MAY  MUSINGS. 

His  song  gushes  out  like  the  lark's  in  the  meadow, 
Health  glows  on  his  cheek,  and  fire  beams  in  his  eye. 

His  life  is  in  sunlight,  with  no  hint  of  shadow,  • 

Thus  far  the  dark  angel,  Despair,  has  passed  by. 

Ah  !  could  he  examine  my  heart's  written  pages, 
And  see  the  deep  marks  that  are  graven  thereon, 

Could  he  but  know  how  a  fierce  passion  rages, 
On  his  lips  would  his  song  die,  ere  well  begun. 

The  well  spring  of  love  in  his  bosom  is  swelling, 
Some  fair  maid,  perhaps,  has  smiled  sweetly  on  him, 

Strange,  sweet  emotions  within  him  are  welling, 
Uprising,  like  froth  that  must  rise  to  the  brim. 

But  ah  !  bitter  thought,  I  have  done  this  before  him, 
My  heart  has  been  quivering  with  love's  ardent  fire  ; 

I  basked  for  a  while  in  the  light  of  her  glances, 
And  wondered  what  more  could  a  mortal  desire. 

But  now,  I  know  well  how  she  played  on  my  heart-strings, 
Those  quivering  tendrils  which  thrilled  'neath  her  gaze  ; 

And  still,  after  years,  I  can  feel  the  sharp  stings 
Which  were  planted  in  here,  in  life's  early  days. 


GIOVANNI  S   BELLS. 

GIOVANNI'S   BELLS. 
A  Legend  of  the  "  Bells  of  Limerick" 

Down  from  the  verdure-covered  steep, 
Where  the  purple  shades  of  evening  sleep, 
Down  through  the  vale  where  Como  lies, 
Like  a  jewel  dropped  from  the  azure  skies  ; 
Down  from  the  convent's  gloomy  tower, 
Came  the  vesper  chimes,  at  the  twilight  hour, 
Floating  along  on  the  perfumed  air 
Which  seemed  to  abide  forever  there. 

Down  through  the  drifts  of  tossing  trees, 
Their  music  rode  on  the  wanton  breeze  ; 
Sweet  as  the  notes  the  angels  hymn, 
Sweet  as  the  songs  of  the  seraphim  ; 
Quivering,  trembling,  in  their  flight. 
Over  the  waters  so  still  and  bright, 
Over  the  hills  on  the  distant  shore, 
Their  harmony  fell,  in  the  days  of  yore. 

Ever  at  morn',  when  the  sun  arose 
And  flashed  its  light  on  the  Alpine  snows, 
And  flooded  the  vale  where  Como  dreams, 
Kissed  and  caressed  by  its  golden  beams, 
The  bells  rang  forth  their  matin  chimes, 
Blending  and  melting  to  Runic  rhymes  ; 
Those  wondrous  bells  Giovanni's  power 
Had  forged  to  be  hung  in  the  convent  tower. 

Ever  at  eve,  when  the  sun  sank  low, 

And  the  shadows  stretched  o'er  the  lake  below, 

And  the  birds  of  song,  with  their  silken  plumes, 

Went  to  their  nests  in  the  scented  blooms, 

Those  quaint  old  bells,  from  the  heights  above, 

Sent  down  greetings  of  peace  and  love  ; 

And  old  Giovanni  walked  below, 

While  the  night  winds  played  with  his  locks  of  snow. 

High  on  a  ledge  his  villa  stood, 
While  'round  reigned  deepest  solitude  ; 
Unbroken, »save  the  owl's  hoarse  cry, 
Or  by  the  lake's  sweet  lullaby. 
Under  the  trees,  with  upturned  face 
He  walked,  with  slow  and  solemn  pace, 
Rapt,  by  the  strains  which  fell  so  clear, 
From  the  gray  old  tower  to  his  list'ning  ear. 


GIOVANNI  S   BELLS. 

Here  alone,  in  sequestered  ease, 
He  lived,  in  the  shade  of  the  spreading  trees  ; 
Happy  to  think  that  the  bells  on  high 
Should  ring  his  requiem,  when  he  came  to  die 
Happy  to  think  that,  at  close  of  day, 
Down  from  the  tower,  so  old  and  gray, 
Should  float  his  angelus,  loved  so  well, 
O'er  the  silvery  lake  and  the  slumb'ring  dell. 

"  They  are  my  children,"  he  oft'  would  say, 
To  the  weary  stranger  who  passed  that  way, 
And  paused  for  an  hour  in  the  sultry  heat, 
Neath  his  arbor  vines,  where  a  rustic  seat 
Was  ever  in  waiting  to  offer  rest, 
To  those  whom  travel  had  sore  oppressed. 
"  They  are  my  children,  and  I  love 
To  hear  them  ring  from  the  heights  above." 

"Beautiful  bells, 
Beautiful  bells, 
Sweetly  your  echoes 
Float  o'er  the  dells. 

Over  the  mountain  and  over  the  plains 
Over  the  fountains, 
And  over  the  fells, 
Beautiful,  beautiful, 
Beautiful  bells, 

Sweet  o'er  my  soul  your  harmony  swells." 

Such  was  the  scene  on  Como's  shore, 

In  the  times  of  peace,  in  the  days  of  yore  ; 

Such  was  the  scene  in  that  peaceful  vale, 

When  over  the  sea  came  the  ruthless  Gael ; 

Over  the  sea,  with  a  vast  array 

Of  warriors,  armed  for  the  deadly  fray. 

Flushed  with  a  hundred  battles  won, 

In  every  clime,  'neath  every  sun. 

Thrilled  by  the  praise  their  deeds  would  ring, 
From  their  august  Lords,  and  warrior  King  ; 
Tried  by  their  campaigns  on  the  Rhine, 
Tried  by  their  wars  in  Palestine, 
Tried  by  their  conflicts  on  the  soil 
Nourished  and  fed  by  the  mighty  Nile, 
And  the  great  Lualaba,  broad  and  wide,  * 
Which  rolls  its  flood  to  the  Atlantic's  tide. 

On  every  plain  vast  armies  met, 
And  spire,  and  dome,  and  minaret, 
Went  down  before  the  whistling  shell, 


GIOVANNIS    BELLS. 

Serving  the  din  of  war  to  swell. 
Through  every  glen  loud  cannon  boomed, 
.  And  shook  the  dead  who  were  there  entombed  ; 
On  every  hill  war's  lurid  light, 
Burst  through  the  clouds  of  encroaching  night. 

Over  the  spot  where  the  convent  stood 
The  war-cloud  swept,  like  an  angry  flood, 
And  the  walls  where  the  angelus  lingered,  fell, 
In  the  dreadful  storm  of  shot  and  shell ; 
And  old  Giovanni's  peaceful  home, 
Was  hurled  from  the  Conqueror's  road  to  Rome, 
And  the  bells  he  had  made  in  his  early  prime, 
Were  carried  away  to  a  distant  clime. 

Years  rolled  away,  and  peace  once  more 
Had  descended  alike  on  sea  and  shore, 
And  the  lovely  fields  were  gay  again, 
With  golden  corn  and  bearded  grain  ; 
And  the  birds  rejoiced  in  the  leafy  woods, 
Building  their  nests  and  rearing  their  broods, 
And  the  air  was  vocal  with  songs  of  glee, 
Which  heightened  the  scene's  tranquility. 

Peacefully  roamed  the  cattle  through 
The  meadows,  moist  with  the  morning  dew, 
Down  to  the  stream's  white-pebbled  brink, 
Where,  wading  in,  they  might  freely  drink 
Of  the  crystal  stream,  which  flows  so  free, 
Through  the  widening  vale,  to  the  distant  sea. 
Unshocked,  by  the  rude  alarm  of  war, 
Which  had  retired  o'er  the  seas  afar. 

Over  the  fruitful  Southern  land, 
Peace  had  laid  her  healing  hand, 
And  time's  panacea  had  covered  well, 
The  scars  cut  deep  by  the  passing  shell. 
And  the  emerald  sod  covered  every  vale, 
The  same  as  it  did  ere  the  savage  Gael, 
Came,  armed,  from  his  home  beyond  the  sea, 
To  deal  out  death  and  misery. 

But  old  Giovanni  found  no  peace, 

As  the  years  rolled  on  with  their  rich  increase, 

He  haunted  the  spot  where  the  convent  stood, 

With  his  head  bowed  down  in  a  saddened  mood. 

But  at  length,  leaving  all  these  scenes  behind. 

He  roamed  abroad,  as  he  said,  to  find 

The  placd  where  "his  children"  hung  on  high, 

To  hear  their  voices  ere  he  should  die. 


10  GIOVANNI  S    BELLS. 

Abroad  he  roamed,  through  distant  climes, 
Seeking  in  vain,  his  cherished  chimes; 
List'ning  at  eve,  to  the  vesper  bells, 
Which  rapt  his  soul  in  their  mystic  spells. 
But  none  did  he  hear,  as  he  sadly  roved, 
With  the  silvery  tones  which  he  fondly  loved  ; 
None  did  he  hear  with  the  marvelous  power, 
Of  the  bells  which  had  hung  in  the  convent  tower. 

But  at  last,  far  off,  in  a  foreign  town, 

When  old,  and  feeble,  and  broken  down, 

A  traveler,  fresh  from  old  Erin's  shore, 

Told  Giovanni,  o'er  and  o'er, 

Of  the  marvelous  chimes  he  had  heard  at  eve, 

From  the  towers  whose  shadows  fall  and  heave, 

On  the  Shannon's  sun-kissed,  placid  breast, 

When  the  light  comes  low  from  the  distant  west. 

Hope  once  more  in  his  heart  rose  high, 
A  new  light  beamed  in  his  clear,  dark  eye. 
And  drawing  his  cloak  round  his  wasted  form, 
That  its  ample  folds  might  keep  him  warm, 
He  wandered  down  to  the  beach  near  by, 
Where  a  forest  of  spars  rose  thick  and  high, 
And  soon  set  sail  for  the  Emerald  shore, 
Hoping  to  hear  his  chimes  once  more. 

So  one  June  eve,  as  the  sun  sank  low, 
O'er  the  Western  hills,  and  left  a  glow, 
On  Limerick's  gray  old  towers  and  spires 
Which  seemed  to  float  in  a  sea  of  fires, 
A  long  yawl,  manned  by  a  faithful  crew, 
Up  the  Shannon's  tide,  came  in  full  view 
Of  Limerick,  built  on  the  peaceful  stream, 
Like  the  beautiful  phantom  of  a  dream. 

High  on  the  stern  Giovanni  stood, 
With  his  soul  withdrawn,  in  a  pensive  mood. 
He  saw  not  the  landscape  smiling  near, 
He  saw  not  the  waters  rippling  clear, 
He  saw  not  the  seamen  pulling  strong 
At  the  flashing  oars,  heard  not  their  song  ; 
For  his  gaze  was  fixed  on  Limerick's  spires, 
Which  blazed  in  the  sun's  expiring  fires. 

Suddenly,  out  from  the  gray  tower,  fell 

The  chimes  Giovanni  knew  so  well  ! 

Those  strange  deep  tones  which  seemed  to  roll 

Like  waves  of  bliss  o'er  his  troubled  soul, 

And  with  one  glad  cry  he  sank  to  rest, 


IN    THE    AUTUMN    WOODS.  II 

While  his  faithful  crew  around  him  pressed. 
But  alas  !  the  brave  old  soul  had  fled  ! 
Giovanni  lay  in  their  strong  arms,  dead  ! 

Then,  drawing  his  cloak  o'er  his  aged  face, 

Where  sorrow  had  left  its  baneful  trace, 

The  crew,  once  more,  with  saddened  hearts, 

Rowed  up  into  Limerick's  bustling  marts. 

And  there  he  was  laid  ;  where  the  gladsome  sound 

Of  St.  Mary's  chimes  fell  ever  around. 

Far  from  his  warm  Italian  skies, 

In  the  sleep  of  peace,  Giovanni  lies. 


IN    THE  AUTUMN  WOODS, 

Alone,  in  the  bright  September  woods 
I  roam,  in  the  deepest  solitudes  ;  r 

On  spongy  moss,  and  yellow  leaves 
My  footsteps  fall,  while  memory  weaves 
Sweet  idylls  of  the  days  gone  by  ; 
Those  summer  days  when  earth  and  sky 
Were  soft  with  the  odorous  breath  of  flowers 
Which  bloomed  in  quiet,  secluded  bowers. 

I  pause,  in  a  thoughtful  reverie, 
With  my  foot  placed  on  a  fallen  tree, 
And  folding  my  arms  across  my  breast, 
I  gaze  at  the  scene,  while  I  calmly  rest ; 
The  wild  vines  hang  from  bough  and  limb, 
And  trail  away  in  the  shadows  dim, 
And  the  golden  sunlight  filters  through 
The  Autumn  leaves,  from  the  sky  so  blue. 

Standing  thus,  in  a  thoughtful  mood, 
In  the  deep  recesses  of  the  wood, 
With  a  nameless  sorrow  in  my  breast, 
A  half  sweet  pain,  a  strange  unrest. 
I  hear,  floating'out  from  a  distant  tree, 
A  robin's  song,  so  wild  and  free  ; 
And  the  echoes  answer  back  the  strains, 
Which  float  away  through  the  leafy  lanes. 


12  TWILIGHT    IN    THE    COUNTRY. 

Sing,  pretty  bird,  thy  cheerful  lay 
Shall  drive  my  heart's  dull  care  away, 
Thy  dulcet  notes  which  fill  the  grove 
Are  burdened  with  excess  of  love. 
Among  the  rustling,  crimson  leaves, 
Which  the  strong,  fresh  wind  upheaves, 
You  sit  and  sing  your  songs  of  glee, 
Unheard,  unheeded,  save  by  me. 

Sing  on,  sweet  bird,  thy  tender  strains 
Will  put  to  flight  my  cares  and  pains ; 
Sing  on,  for  soon  the  frost  will  come, 
And  you  will  leave  for  a  warmer  home. 
Sing  on,  while  yet  the  golden  corn 
Waves  its  silken  floss,  unshorn ; 
While  yet  the  whirr  of  rapid  wings 
Beat  time  to  your  sweet  warblings. 

Sing,  noble  bird,  thy  silken  plumes 
Will  soon  be  pressed  'mid  Southern  blooms 
And  soon  the  grove  where  now  you  trill 
Will  feel  the  winter's  biting  chill. 
This  grove  of  pine  so  cool  and  sweet, 
Whose  leafy  trees  embrace  and  meet ; 
Yet  still  fair  bird,  when  thou  art  gone, 
I  shall  roam  the  woods  alone. 


TWILIGHT  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

Softly  o'er  the  dewy  meadows. 
Fall  the  mystic  twilight  shades, 

While  the  lengthening  sombre  shadows 
Deepen  in  the  woodland  glades. 

Homeward  plods  the  weary  yeoman, 
From  his  hard  and  arduous  toil ; 

Homeward,  in  the  gathering  gloaming, 
From  his  conquest  of  the  soil. 

When  he  reaches  his  old  dwelling, 

Nestled  in  among  the  trees, 
Groups  of  children,  shouting,  yelling, 

Clamber  up  about  his  knees. 


TWILIGHT    IN    THE    COUNTRY.  13 

And  his  wife  stands  by  the  table, 

With  the  love-light  in  her  eyes, 
Glad,  indeed,  when  she  is  able, 

To  give  him  some  sweet  surprise. 

All  around  in  wood  and  thicket, 

Almost  perfect  silence  reigns, 
Save  the  chirping  of  the  cricket 

From  the  bridges  in  the  lanes. 

Murmuring,  through  its  fringe  of  grasses 

Flows  the  brooklet  on  its  way, 
Over  rocks  where  soft  green  mosses, 

Cling  amid  the  drifting  spray. 

Rounding  bends  where  tufts  of  clover 

Stoop  to  kiss  its  rippling  breast ; 
Ever  onward  !  Like  a  rover, 

Pausing  not  to  dream  or  rest. 

Down  the  dim  paths  from  the  pastures. 

Slowly  wend  the  drowsy  kine, 
Goaded  oft'  to  send  them  faster, 

As  the  twilight  gleams  decline. 

Soon  they  reach  the  place  of  milking— 

How  their  bellowing  fills  the  air — 
And  their  sides,  so  sleek  and  silken, 

Are  caressed  and  brushed  with  care. 

And  when  from  the  swelling  udders 

All  the  rich,  warm  milk  is  drawn. 
They  are  warmly  housed  and  foddered, 

Till  the  twilight  melts  to  dawn . 

Lovely  twilight,  light  and  darkness 

Blending  sweetly  into  one  , 
Mystic  shadows,  dusk  and  murkness, 

Reigning,  when  the  day  is  done. 


14  SONG    OF    THE    FACTORY    BELL. 


SONG  OF  THE  FACTORY  BELL. 

List'  to  the  Factory  bell, 

Pealing  at  dawn. 
Its  echoes  sink  and  swell, 

O'er  lea  and  lawn, 
It  says  to  the  working  throng  : 
"Come,  for  the  day  is  long, 
And  the  swift  shuttle's  song 

Must  greet  the  morn.1' 

Swinging  within  its  tower, 
Ringing  with  won'drous  power, 
Flinging  its  music  o'er 

Highway  and  mead. 
Swelling  out  o'er  the  place, 
Dwelling  in  mystic  space 
Telling  the  toiling  race  : 

"Work  gives  you  bread." 

Up  in  the  belfry  high, 

Pendant  it  swings, 
Poised  between  earth  and  sky, 

Firmly  it  clings. 
Shaped  like  a  massive  pear, 
Moulded  from  metal  rare, 
Oh  !  how  it  thrills  the  air, 

At  dawn  when  it  rings. 

When  wind  and  drenching  rain, 
Beat  fierce,  on  tower  and  fane, 
Far  over  street  and  lane, 

Floats  its  loud  peal  ; 
Entering  cottage  homes, 
Where  plenty  seldom  comes, 
Where  hunger  often  dooms, 

Loved  ones  to  steal. 

Down  from  an  arm  falls 

A  rope,  through  the  gloom, 
Down  to  the  dingy  walls 

Of  the  night-watchman's  room. 
And  here,  when  the  morning  breaks, 
Down  from  the  hook,  he  takes 
The  rope,  and  quickly  makes 
The  bell  loudly  boom. 


SONG    OF    THE    FACTORY    BELT,.  15 

Up,  on  the  slated  roof, 

Stands  the  square  tower,  aloof, 

Lofty  and  water  proof, 

Dusky  with  age, 
And,  far  beneath  the  Mill, 
Now  frozen  hard,  and  still, 
Lies  the  deep  creek,  which  will 

Soon  roar  and  rage. 

Swaying  from  side  to  side, 

Oft'  turning  round, 
Scattering  far  and  wide 

Its  welcome  sound. 
Out  through  the  morning  air 
Be  the  day  rough  or  fair, 
It  tells  the  lowly,  where 

Work  may  be  found. 

"Work  gives  you  bread,"  it  says, 
"Work  shall  prolong  your  days, 
Work  shall  in  future,  raise 

You,  from  want  and  need," 
Come  to  our  monster  rooms 
Come,  start  our  polished  looms, 
Come,  for  our  shafting  hums 

With  lightning  speed. 

List'  to  the  Fire-bell's 

Tones  of  alarm, 
When  its  deep  booming  swells, 

Our  highways  swarm 
With  an  excited  crowd, 
Heedless  of  fog  or  cloud, 
Called  by  its  tolling  loud, 
-  From  couches  warm. 

Ringing  with  might  and  main. 
Sounding  through  street  and  lane, 
Rousing  the  sluggish  swain 

Out  from  his  dreams. 
Rolling  in  thunder  peals, 
Drowning  the  engine's  wheels, 
As  through  the  town  it  reels 

To  where  the  fire  gleams. 

Hark  !  The  deep  Sabbath-bells, 

List'  to  their  rhyme. 
Weekly  their  music  tells, 

Of  things  sublime, 
How  sweet,  on  Sabbath  morn, 


1 6          SONG  OF  THE  FACTORY  BELL. 

When  through  the  grain  and  corn, 
On  the  soft  breeze  is  borne 
Their  gentle  chime. 

Tolling  from  lofty  spires, 
Calling  on  sons  and  sires  : 
"Come,  while  the  Angel  choirs, 

Chant  their  sweet  hymns," 
Out  from  the  steeples  gray, 
Wafted  for  miles  away, 
On  the  quiet  Sabbath  day. 

Their  music  swims. 

Stern  is  the  Fire-bell, 

When  rung  in  haste, 

Pleading  the  Sabbath-bell, 
Sacred  and  chaste. 

Yet,  sweeter  by  far  to  me, 

Is  that  old  bell  we  see 

Above  the  "old  Factory" 
As  we  go  past. 

Long  may  old  Franklindale's 
Bell  pierce  the  driving  gale, 
And  waken  hill  and  vale, 

With  its  sweet  chimes. 
Long  shall  its  music  be 
Fresh  in  my  memory, 
When  I,  perchance,  may  be, 

In  distant  climes. 

For  it  calls  the  busy  ones, 

Forth  to  their  toil ; 
Fathers,  daughters,  sons, 

Go  with  a  smile. 
They  leave  their  early  bed, 
To  earn  their  daily  bread, 
Sturdily  striving,  dread 
Hunger  to  foil. 

Swinging  within  its  tower, 
Ringing  with  wondrous  power, 
Flinging  its  music  o'er 

Highway  and  mead. 
Swelling  out  over  the  place, 
Dwelling  in  mystic  space, 
Telling  the  toiling  race : 

"Work  gives  you  bread." 


THE    BRIDGE    OF    ASHTABULA.  17 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  ASHTABULA. 

Up  !  Through  the  storm  of  wind  and  rain, 

Through  mountain  gorge,  o'er  winding  plain, 

Dashing,  sweeping,  with  lightning  speed, 

Like  some  wild  Arabian  bleed ; 

With  its  mane  of  smoke,  flying  far  behind, 

Swept  right  and  left  by  the  terrific  wind. 

Bowling  along  with  its  human  freight. 

Driven  by  the  merciless  hand  of  Fate. 

Swiftly  onward  speeds  the  train, 

Through  sleet  and  snow,  and  wind  and  rain, 

Swiftly  onward  !    Once  again 

To  the  bridge  of  Ashtabula  ! 

Up  !  Through  the  gloom  of  a  wintry  night, 
With  its  polished  headlight  gleaming  bright ; 
Dashing,  sweeping  along  the  road, 
Bearing  its  precious  human  load. 
Now !  At  the  base  of  a  mighty  hill, 
Where  the  torrent  dashes  its  waters  chill  ; 
Again,  on  the  marge  of  a  frozen  stream  ; 
Puffing  its  smoke,  and  puffing  its  steam  ; 
The  great  train  sweeps,  on  its  westward  flight, 
Leaving  ravine  and'  stream  and  height 
Behind  !  In  the  clouds  of  storm  and  night, 
As  it  thunders  on,  with  all  its  might, 
2 o  the  bridge  of  Ashtabula. 

Onward  !  With  ever  increasing  speed, 
O'er  glen  and  gorge,  o'er  field  and  mead, 
It  dashes  along,  in  its  mad  career, 
All  heedless  of  Danger,  hovering  near. 
Unseeing  the  Stranger,  wan  and  white, 
Who  leaps  aboard,  from  the  dusk  of  night, 
And,  seizing  the  valves  in  his  bony  hand, 
Like  some  great  captain,  assumes  command, 
And,  looking  ahead  up  the  snow-wreathed  track 
Sees,  through  the  gloom  of  the  storm  and  wrack, 
The  Bridge  of  Death  !  With  the  hidden  crack, 
T  he  Bridge  of  Ashtabula. 

Nothing  is  heard,  but  the  howling  wind, 
As  it  roars  before,  around,  behind, 
Nothing  is  seen  but  night's  dark  clouds. 
Which  hang  around  like  funeral  shrouds. 


l8  THE    BRIDGE    OF    ASHTABULA. 

The  brakemen  stand  at  the  "patent  brakes" 
Facing  the  swift-descending  Hakes, 
The  daring  Folsom,  and  brave  McGuire, 
Who  drive  the  steeds  with  the  lungs  of  fire, 
Gazing  ahead,  where  the  tempest  rages, 
Trying  the  water,  and  eyeing  the  guages, 
Thundering  on  !  In  their  narrow  cages, 
To  the  Bridge  of  Ashtabula  ! 

Onward  !  Onward  !  Sweeps  the  train, 
On  !  Through  the  driving  sleet  and  rain  ! 
And  lo  !  The  bridge  looms  up  in  sight, 
With  its  beams  and  cross-beams,  clothed  in  white  ; 
And  still,  with  the  speed  of  a  shooting  star, 
It  rushes  along,  with  jolt  and  jar, 
On  !  To  the  fatal  Bridge  of  Death  ! 
When  crash  !  It  is  hurled  to  the  depths  beneath  ! 
The  brave  McGuire  stands  at  his  post, 
And  opens  the  throttle  wide,  almost, 
When  his  engine  leaps,  and  the  bridge  is  crossed — 
But  alas  !  his  comrades  all  are  lost, 
With  the  snapping  asunder,  by  the  frost 
Of  the  Bridge  of  Ashtabula. 

Plunging  downward,  cars  on  cars, 
Smashing  beams,  and  twisting  bars — 
Piling  the  wounded,  dying,  dead, 
Together,  in  one  ghastly  bed. 
While  from  the  awful  funeral  pyre, 
Quickly  burst  red  tongues  of  fire, 
And  Oh  !  The  shrieks  which  rend  the  air, — 
The  shrieks  of  woe  and  wild  despair, 
As  victim  after  victim  dies, 
Amid  the  flames  which  now  arise, 
Higher  and  higher,  toward  the  skies, 
Which  bend  o'er  the  awful  sacrifice, 
At  the  Bridge  of  Ashtabula. 

O  !  awful  night  of  gloom  and  cloud  ! 
O  !  awful  night  of  fire  and  shroud  ! 
O  !  awful  night  of  Death  and  woe ! 
As  e'er  was  witnessed  here  below ! 
Down  in  the  bed  of  the  frozen  stream, 
The  burning  victims  wail  and  scream, 
While  high  the  lurid  flames  arise, 
Toward  the  cold,  unpitying  skies  ; 
Men  are  hastening  through  the  gloom, 
To  save  as  many  from  their  doom, 
As  can  be  dragged  from  the  new-made  tomb, 
At  the  Bridge  of  Ashtabula. 


MEMORIAL   ODE.  19 

Oh  !  Many  a  home  will  have  cause  to  mourn, 
And  many  a  hearth  will  be  forlorn, 
For  many  a  true,  true  friend  was  lost 
Forever  !  by  that  great  holocaust. 
For  there,  in  the  shapeless,  blackened  mass, 
The  victims  lie.     But  alas  !  Alas  ! 
Their  features  never  more  can  be 
Known  this  side  of  Eternity  ! 
Many  a  maiden  will  watch  in  vain, 
For  a  lover  who  went  by  the  death-doomed  train  ; 
And  who,  in  the  snow,  and  sleet,  and  rain, 
Went  down  with  the  numbers  who  were  slain, 
At  the  Bridge  of  Ashtabula. 


MEMORIAL  ODE. 

From  the  clouds  of  Lookout  Mountain, 

From  the  mists  of  Malvern  Hill, 
From  the  environs  of  Richmond, 

Now  peaceful,  quiet  and  still  ; 
From  fair  Shenandoah  Valley, 

From  the  Rapidan's  lone  shore, 
Where  once  our  conquering  armies 

Our  standard  proudly  bore. 

From  the  slopes  which  rise  so  gently 

From  the  Mississippi's  marge, 
From  the  vales  which  once  resounded 

To  the  fierce  assault  and  charge  ; 
From  the  towers  of  old  Atlanta, 

From  Potomac's  heaving  breast, 
Comes  a  voice  which  bids  us  honor 

Our  comrades  now  at  rest. 

This  voice  is  fraught  with  meaning, 

For  those  who  have  to  mourn 
A  father,  friend  or  brother, 

From  their  fond  bosoms  torn, 
Who,  wrapt  in  peaceful  slumbers, 

Beneath  the  emerald  sod 
Is  awaiting  the  "Day  of  Judgment," 

Awaiting  the  call  of  God. 


MEMORIAL    ODE. 

So,  around  these  tombs  of  heroes, 

As  we  gather, — one  by  one, — 
Let  us  try  and  tell  the  children 

What  their  noble  sires  have  done  ; 
Let  us  tell  them  of  their  courage, 

How  they  lived  and  fought  and  died  ; 
How  to  bear  up  Freedom's  standard 

They  the  bolts  of  war  defied. 

How  they  left  their  homes  and  firesides, 

Their  babes,  their  wives,  their  all, — 
The  plow,  the  desk,  the  workshr 

At  their  country's  earnest  ca 
How  they  went  where  deadly    arnage 

Swept  their  serried  ranks  a.vay, 
How,  in  the  Southern  trenches, 

In  death's  embrace  they  lay. 

How  they  braved  the  dread  diseases 

In  the  great  Virginia  swamps, 
How  they  suffered  sad  privations 

In  their  marches  and  their  camps  ; 
How  they  fought  on  cloud-capped  mountains, 

And  fell  by  the  sluggish  streams, 
How  they  watched  by  their  fires  at  midnight 

And  guarded  their  comrades'  dreams. 

How  in  Summer's  heat  they  i  -inted 

Under  Georgia's  burning  SUP, 
How  in  Winter's  snows  they  shivered 

On  the  ramparts  they  had  won  ; 
How  in  wind  and  rain  and  tempest, 

They  had  oft'  to  push  their  way 
Up  to  the  frowning  battlements, 

To  meet  the  foe,  at  bay. 

Tell  them  of  Antietam, 

Of  the  glorious  conquest  gained  ; 
How  "Our  Boys"  wrested  victory 

From  the  field  their  blood  had  stained. 
Tell  them  of  famous  Gettysburgh, 

Of  the  brilliant  conflict  there, 
How  that  old  flag,  so  rent  and  torn. 

Waved  high  in  the  sulphurous  air. 

Tell  of  the  great  Commanders 
Who  planned  the  vast  campaigns, 

Who  led  our  successful  legions, 
O'er  mountains,  streams  and  plains, — 

On  !  to  the  goal  of  Victory  ! 


MEMORIAL   ODE. 

On  !  to  the  ambushed  foe  ! 
On  !  to  the  bristling  ramparts, 

From  the  shell-swept  plains  below. 

Tell  of  the  loathsome  prisons, 

Where  many  a  brave  man  died, 
Grieved  at  the  scene  of  misery 

And  suffering  at  his  side. — 
Whose  horrors  threw  a  shadow 

O'er  America's  mighty  heart, 
Whose  horrors  threw  their  shadows 

To  the  earth's  remotest  part. 

But,  above  all,  let  us  tell  them 

That  the  conflict  now  is  o'er, 
That  the  "Sunny  South"  re-echoes 

With  the  cannonade  no  more  ; 
That  the  battle-smoke  no  longer 

Hangs  o'er  her  Magnolian  groves; 
That  her  homesteads  all  are  peaceful 

With  domestic  joys  and  loves. 

That  "beneath  his  vine  and  fig-tree," 

The  patriarch  now  can  rest, 
With  his  children's  children,  slumbering 

Sweetly  on  his  aged  breast ; 
He  can  smoke  his  pipe  at  even' 

When  the  sultry  day  is  o'er, 
Without  the  dread  of  hearing 

The  cannon's  deafening  roar. 

Tell  them  that  old  resentments, 

Have  been  banished  from  our  hearts, 
That  we  meet  owe  foes,  as  brothers, 

In  our  cities  and  our  marts. 
Tell  them  that  old  antipathies 

Are  fading  fast  away, 
That  the  flowers  of  spring  are  strewn  alike, 

On  the  graves  of  the  "Blue  and  the  Gray.'' 

For,  bridged  is  the  "bloody  chasm.'' 

Which  yawned  'tween  "North"  and  "South," 
Hushed  are  the  words  of  anger 

Which  surged  to  every  mouth  ; 
Quenched  are  the  fires  of  Conquest, 

Which  blazed  on  every  height, 
And  buried  are  all  dissensions 

Forever  !  from  our  sight. 

So,  bring  from  the  woods  the  violets, 
Arrayed  in  their  purple  hoods  ; 


22  THE    GIPSEY  S    PROPHECY. 

Bring  us  the  wild  May  blossoms, 

From  Nature's  solitudes. 
Bring  us  the  opening  roses, 

Whose  hearts  are  warm  and  red, 
And  with  saddened  hearts  we'll  strew  them 

On  the  graves  of  our  honored  dead. 

Go    gather  the  wild  arbutus, 

F Yon   the  mountain's  rugged  crest. 
Where  the  steps  of  the  solemn  ages, 

On  granite  ribs  are  prest ; 
Go  !  gather  the  waxen  lilies, 

Which  bend  o'er  the  crystal  waves, 
And,  wet  with  tears  we'll  strew  them 

O'er  the  tombs  of  our  fallen  "Braves." 


THE  GIF  SETS  PROPHECY. 

Just  outside  of  our  quaint  old  town, 

At  the  base  of  a  hill-side,  sloping  down, 

A  gray  old  Gipsey,  frail  and  bent, 

On  a  bright  Spring  day,  had  pitched  her  tent — 

A  queer  old  affair,  all  weather-worn. 

Browned  by  the  sun,  and  rent  and  torn. 

She  pitched  it  beneath  a  leaning  tree, 

Whose  long  limbs  lay  caressingly 

O'er  a  limpid  brook,  whose  ceaseless  song, 

Echoed  the  budding  woods  among, 

As  it  ran  through  its  grassy  fringe  away, 

To  the  broad,  clear  stream,  which  beneath  it  lay. 

The  day  was  warm,  as  I  said  before, 

And  the  news  quickly  spread  from  door  to  door, 

Until,  when  the  sun  had  sunk  from  view, 

Every  maid  in  the  village  of  W ,  knew 

That  a  fortune-teller,  of  some  renown, 
Had  pitched  her  tent,  just  without  the  town. 

But  I  shall  not  tell  you  of  all  who  went, 

The  next  day  to  visit  the  Gipsev's  tent, 

For  all  the  "old  maids"  about  the  town, 

Had  donned  their  "latest"  hat  and  gown 

And  what  with  their  flounces,  and  what  with  their  curls, 

Why,  they  looked  like  a  troop  of  love-sick  girls. 


THE    GIPSEY  S   PROPHECY.  23 

As  they  sauntered  by  many  an  obscure  road, 
Which  was  known  to  lead  to  the  seer's  abode, 
Of  course,  they  all  went  to  gather  flmoers, 
Which  were  blooming  in  nature's  cloistered  bowers. 
Yet,  'twas  strange  that  all  their  steps  were  bent 
By  round-about  ways,  to  the  Gipsey's  tent. 

I  shall  only  tell  you  of  one  fair  maid, 
Whose  eyes  have  the  midnight's  deepest  shade, 
With  hair  like  the  far-famed  raven's  wing, 
Of  which  the  poets  so  warmly  sing, 
And  a  form,  for  which  a  Queen  of  old, 
Would  have  given  her  kingdom,  or  her  gold. 

The  warm  May  sun  had  descended  low, 
When  Maud,  (at  least  I  will  call  her  so, 
For  it  matters  not  who  the  maid  may  be, 
It  can  interest  but  herself  and  me.) — 
Had  completed  those  duties  which  ever  prove 
To  the  steadfast  girl,  a  labor  of  love. 

So,  throwing  her  shawl  o'er  her  queenly  head, 
Away  through  the  Village  streets  she  sped  ; 
On  past  the  Church,  on  past  the  School, 
Across  the  meadows,  so  green  and  cool, 
Where  the  quiet  cattle,  cropping  the  rich  grass, 
Lowed  her  a  welcome,  as  she  flitted  past. 

Arrived  at  length  at  the  Gipsey's  tent, 
The  poor  old  dame  so  frail  and  bent, 
Appeared  at  the  door,  with  staff  in  hand, 
And  told  the  embarrassed  maid  to  stand 
Just  where  the  sun's  last  light  would  stream, 
On  her  youthful  face,  lovely  as  a  dream. 

"Young  Lady,1'  the  aged  crone  began, 
As  her  eyes  o'er  the  blushing  maid  she  ran  ; 
"You  have  come  to  invoke  my  despised  art, 
To  unlock  the  secrets  in  the  Future's  heart ; 
Secrets  of  which  all  young  maidens  seem 
To  muse  by  day,  and  by  night  to  dream." 

"Give  me  your  hand  ;"— And  the  hand  was  given, — 

That  fair  white  hand,  for  which,  by  Heaven, 

I  would  gladly  sacrifice,  gladly  give 

All  for  which  life  is  fit  to  live, — 

Placed  in  the  hand  of  that  withered  dame, 

Who,  perhaps,  never  knew  love's  ardent  flame. 


24  THE   GIPSEY  S   PROPHECY. 

Holding  Maud's  trembling  hand  awhile, 

In  her  hard  brown  palm,  a  strange,  queer  smile, 

The  beldame's  thin,  pinched  face  o'erspread, 

As  she  traced  its  veins,  where  they  crossed  and  led, 

And  in  words  prophetic  of  great  portent 

She  bade  her  enter  the  humble  tent. 

Still  holding  Maud's  hand  within  her  own. 
She  led  the  way  to  an  upraised  throne, 
And  with  a  waive  of  a  snake-like  wand, 
Which  she  took  from  its  niche  in  her  bony  hand, 
She  caused  a  star-like  light  to  flow 
From  the  mystic  throne,  over  all  below. 

"Young  Lady,  I  read  in  your  dimpled  palm; 
That  your  life  has  passed  like  a  peaceful  psalm 
I  see  nothing  here  but  a  golden  haze, 
Floating  around  your  youthful  days, 
Nothing  but  joy  and  peace,  and  bliss, 
Seldom  enjoyed  in  a  world  like  this. 

"But,  into  this  golden  light,  I  see, 

A  suitor  who  yearns  to  capture  thee  ; 

He  has  deep  black  eyes  and  jetty  hair, 

He  dresses  well ;  but  ah,  beware  ! 

Near  to  the  bottom  of  his  proffered  glass, 

Are  dregs  of  poison  ;  so,  beware  !  fair  lass. 

"He  looks  like  a  very  Prince  to  thee 

With  his  great  display  of  jewelry, 

With  his  broadcloth  coat,  and  his  stylish  hat 

Tilted  back  on  his  head,  like  that" — 

And  here,  the  crone  her  hand  upraised, 

To  show  how  the  hat  on  his  head  was  placed. 

"His  speech  is  fine,  no  stop,  no  stammer, 
His  stylish  air,  his  faultless  grammar, 
And  culture,  make  him  seem  superior 
To  honest  men,  of  rough  exterior, 
Who  are  daily  inured  to  the  hardest  toil, 
In  the  crowded  shop,  or  on  the  verdant  soil. 

"But  ah  !  fair  maid,  I  can  see  him  through  ; 

His  love  can  ne'er  bring  joy  to  you  ; 

I  can  see  through  the  glitter  of  his  disguise, 

A  monster  with  many  baleful  eyes, 

Which  will  cause,  in  the  end,  his  ardent  love. 

To  turn  to  hate,  so  beware  !  sweet  dove. 

"Search  deep  down  in  your  heart's  pure  cell, 
And  study  its  secret  yearnings  well ; 
It  shall  instruct  you,  on  whose  breast 


A    DREAM    OF    HOME.  25 

This  shapely  head,  you  can  safely  rest ; 

It  shall  instruct  you,  on  whose  arm, 

You  can  lean  through  life  and  fear  no  harm. 

"But  should  you  ignore  what  your  heart  dictates 

I  can  see  great  warring  among  the  Fates, 

I  can  see  great  clouds,  all  lightning  riven, 

I  can  hear  great  thunder  in  the  arch  of  Heaven. 

And  the  'furies'  maddened  to  the  last  degree, 

Planning  and  plotting  dire  misery. 

"I  can  see  your  sun  going  down  in  clouds, 

I  see  Death's  Angel,  waiting  with  your  shroud, 

I  can  see  all  manner  of  ill-fortune,  loom 

From  your  nuptial  hour,  to  your  hour  of  Doom, 

If  you  cast  aside  your  heart's  dictation, 

And  marry  a  man  for  his  wealth  or  station," 

Screaming,  the  maiden  broke  away, 

From  the  grasp  of  the  Gipsey,  old  and  gray. 

Frightened,  she  fled  o'er  the  dewy  meadows, 

Now  dim  with  evening's  lengthening  shadows, 

Nor  paused  she,  in  all  her  rapid  flight, 

Till  her  father's  homestead  appeared  in  sight. 


ONL  V  A  DREAM  OF  HOME. 

'Twas  only  a  dream  of  the  dear  old  home, 
Where  in  childhood's  years  I  used  to  dwell, 

But  it  carried  me  back  from  the  city's  din, 
To  the  breezy  braes  that  I  loved  so  well. 

It  carried  me  back  to  that  summer  morn' 
When  I  bade  my  mother  a  fond  adieu 

At  the  rustic  stile  where  the  waving  corn 
Grew  fresh  and  green  in  the  morning  dew, 

I  saw  again  the  old  farm  house, 

With  its  low-thatched  roof,  and  shelving  eaves, 
And  the  two  great  oaks  so  straight  and  tall, 

Which  swept  the  roof  with  their  clust'ring  leaves. 

I  saw  the  stream  and  the  old  red  mill, 

Which  stood  like  an  ancient  sentinel  there, 

But  alas  !  The^damp  old  wheels  were  still, 
And  the  rooms  were  empty,  cold  and  bare. 


26  THE    RAILWAY    STATION. 

Great  cobwebs  hung  from  the  crumbling  beams, 
And  swayed  with  every  gust  of  wind 

Which  swept  across  the  tufted  fields, 
As  if  sighing  for  rest  it  could  never  find. 

The  miller  had  long  since  passed  away, 
To  the  realms  of  eternal  bliss  and  light, 

His  kind  old  face,  so  worn  and  gray, 
On  earth  no  more  can  greet  my  sight. 

I  saw  the  dear  old  hallowed  church, 
Where  I  first  felt  God's  saving  grace— 

With  its  great  wide  door  and  quaint  old  porch, 
Now  seamed  by  time's  relentless  pace. 

And  all  the  dear  friends  that  I  knew, 
Came  thronging  to  my  memory's  bar, 

But  one,  with  eyes  of  heavenly  blue 

Outshone  them  all,  like  a  beauteous  star. 

I  saw  the  light  in  her  lovely  eyes, 
Those  eyes  so  full  of  love  and  truth, 

And  I  know  that  far  beyond  the  skies 
She's  awaiting  the  lover  of  her  youth. 


THE  RAIL  WAY  STA  TION. 

Along  the  track  which  gleams  afar, 
By  field  and  wood,  and  dizzy  "scaur" 
The  Engine  speeds  like  a  shooting  star 
On  its  way  to  the  Railway  Station. 

'Round  many  a  curve,  and  many  a  bend, 
The  Engine  sweeps  like  a  fiery  fiend, 
Up  the  line,  which  takes  a  trend 
Toward  the  Railway  Station. 

The  thunder  of  its  mighty  wheels, 
On  the  ear  increasing  steals 
As  the  great  train  madly  reels, 
Up  to  the  Railway  Station. 

Snug  in  his  cab,  the  Engineer 
Shouts  to  his  fireman  standing  near, 
"Rake  out  your  fires,  Bill,  do  you  hear  ? 
When  we  reach  the  Railway  Station." 


THE    RAILWAY    STATION.  21 

With  his  slice-bar  in  his  hands 
The  Stoker  at  his  furnace  stands, 
Ready  to  obey  his  Chief's  commands, 
When  they  reach  the  Railway  Station. 

With  his  hands  on  his  lever  bright, 
His  gray  eyes  piercing  the  pall  of  night 
The  Engineer  notes  each  red  light, 
As  they  near  the  Railway  Station. 

Free  from  the  head-light's  gleam  of  fire 
The  white  light  falls  on  spoke  and  tire, 
And  the  red  sparks  shoot  up  higher, 
As  they  near  the  Railway  Station. 

The  mighty  Engine  seems  to  feel, 
Life  throbbing  in  its  lungs  of  steel, 
For  fiercely  speeds  each  shaft  and  wheel, 
As  it  sweeps  to  the  Railway  Station. 

The  passengers,  who  doze  and  dream, 
Are  awakened  by  the  piercing  scream, 
Of  the  whistle,  blown  by  the  rushing  steam 
As  they  rush  to  the  Railway  Station. 

The  clouds  of  smoke  are  swept  behind, 
And  across  the  river,  by  the  wind, 
And  the  surplus  steam  is  unconfined 
As  they  near  the  Railway  Station. 

Again  that  whistle,  sharp  and  shrill, 
Re-echoes,  over  vale  and  hill, 
And  now— the  mighty  train  is  still, 
It  has  reached  the  Railway  Station. 

A  rush  of  people  out  and  in, 
Bumping  many  a  nose  and  chin, 
O,  there  is  a  world  of  din 
At  a  busy  Railway  Station. 

Cross  old  ladies  getting  out, 
Fat  old  Brokers  with  the  gout, 
Well-dressed  dandies  stroll  about, 
In  front  of  the  Railway  Station. 

Comely  maidens  fresh  from  school, 
Just  released  from  rigid  rule, 
Slyly  flirt  with  some  vain  fool, 
There,  at  the  Railway  Station. 

Ticket  agents,  thin  and  "crabbed," 
Speaking  sharp,  from  constant  habit, 
Hand  you  a  ticket,  and  you  "grab  it," 
At  the  Railway  Station. 


28  THE    RAILWAY    STATION. 

Doctors,  lawyers,  clerks  and  judges, 
Forgetting  all  their  ancient  grudges — 
Jostle  frowsy  female  drudges 
At  the  crowded  Railway  Station. 

Porters  lugging  trunks  and  bags, 

Hackmen  swearing  at  their  nags, 

Flagmen  running  with  their  flags, 

Around  the  Railway  Station, 

Newsboys  running  here  and  there, 
Bootblacks  with  unkempt  hair, 
Sing  their  lingoes  in  the  air, 
Around  the  Railway  Station. 

A  storm  of  boxes,  bags  and  bales, 
And  trunks  thrown  far  across  the  rails, 
Disorder,  anger,  haste  prevail 
Oft'  at  the  Railway  Station. 

A  puff  of  smoke,  a  rush  of  steam, 
The  whistle's  sharp,  ear-piercing  scream, 
And  like  the  phantom  of  a  dream, 
The  train  leaves  the  Railway  Station. 

From  the  funnel,  quick  and  fast, 
Mighty  clouds  of  smoke  are  cast, 
Hurled  up  fiercely  by  the  exhaust — 
As  it  speeds  from  the  Railway  Station. 

Through  the  tunnel,  just  ahead, 
Swiftly  o'er  its  polished  bed, 
Like  a  comet  it  has  sped, 

Away  from  the  Railway  Station. 

A  flash  of  light, .a  violent  quiver, 
A  run  along  the  darkened  river — 
Shall  it  thus  go  on  forever  ? 

To  and  from  the  Railway  Station. 


THE    TALE    OF    A    TOMB.  29 


THE  TALE  OF  A   TOMB. 

Oppressed  one  day  with  bitter  grief, 

For  one  I  loved  most  dear, 
I  took  my  way  to  find  relief, 

To  an  ancient  Church-yard  near. 

The  old  stone  church  stood  near  the  road. 

The  grave-yard  was  behind  ; — 
And  strange,  weird  noises  were  evoked, 

By  the  rustling  of  the  wind. 

Decay  had  laid  her  withering  touch, 

On  the  old  owl-haunted  pile, 
And  lichens  gray,  and  moss  and  vines 

Quite  hid  its  antique  style. 

The  crumbling  belfry  still  contained 

The  old  moss-covered  bell ; 
But  long  had  ceased  its  solemn  tones. 

Which  the  rustic  knew  so  well. 

The  day  was  gray  and  gloomy, 

And  the  sky  was  overcast ; 
And  the  dead  brown  leaves  were  whirled 

In  rustling  eddies  by  the  blast. 

The  crows  were  flying  northward. 

Uttering  harsh,  discordant  calls, 
While  from  the  valley  floated  up 

The  low  murmur  of  the  Falls. 

With  solemn  tread  I  moved  along, 

Amid  the  vine-wreathed  stones, 
And  soon  I  heard  what  I  supposed 

Were  low,  heart-rending  moans. 

And  passing  o'er  a  little  hill, 

Where  the  grass  grew  soft  and  green, 

I  saw  an  old  man  standing  there, 
With  reverential  mien. 

His  hands  were  clasped,  his  head  drooped  low, 

His  form  was  bent  with  years, 
His  face  expressed  an  utter  woe, 

His  cheeks  were  wet  with  tears. 

He  raised  his  eyes  when  I  drew  near, 

And  took  my  hand  in  his  ; 
And  said  :  "Young  man,  what  brings  you  here, 

To  a  dreary  place  like  this." 


30  THE    TALE    OF    A    TOMB. 

"  'Tis  not  so  oft'  that  youths  like  you, 

Can  tear  themselves  away, 
From  the  fascinations  of  the  world 

To  'muse  'mid  mouldering  clay." 

"But,  perhaps,  some  one  that  you  loved  dear, 

Is  slumb'ring  in  this  place, 
Ah !  yes,  I  know  !  I  see  the  woe 

Depicted  in  your  face." 

"I,  too,  have  come  this  Autumn  day, 

To  take  a  last  farewell 
Of  this  old  stone,  so  cracked  and  gray, 

And  its  sad  tale  to  tell." 

"So,  listen,  my  young  friend,"  he  said, 

"And  I'll  unfold  the  past, 
You'll  be  the  first  I  ever  told, 

And  you  shall  be  the  last." 

He  brushed  a  gathering  tear  away, 

And  clasped  his  hands  again  ; 
A  shiver  ran  along  his  frame, 

His  brow  was  knit  with  pain, 

And  pointing  to  the  crumbling  stone, 

And  to  the  leaf-strewn  mound, 
He  once  or  twice  essayed  to  speak, 

But  scarce  could  make  a  sound. 

But  soon,  with  a  mighty  effort, 
He  shook  off  the  gath'ring  spell, 

And  from  his  thin,  white,  aged  lips, 
The  following  sad  words  fell : 

"I  once  loved  a  beautiful  maiden, 
In  the  Summer  days  long,  long  ago, 

And  the  hours  with  sweet  pleasures  were  laden, 
And  the  earth  was  all  bathed  in  love's  glow. 

"I  first  met  sweet  May  in  the  harvest, 
When  the  reapers'  gay  song  filled  the  air, 

She  sat  on  the  banks  of  a  brooklet, 
And  the  sun-light  played  with  her  hair, 

"Men  were  at  work  in  the  meadows, 
Tossing  the  sweet-scented  hay  ; 

And  children,  in  the  cool  shadows, 
Were  noisily  romping  at  play. 

"Gay  insects  were  drowsily  droning, 
And  flitting  from  flower  to  flower, 

And  the  birds  made  the  warm  air  melodious 
Around  the  fair  maiden's  sweet  bower. 


THE    TALE    OF    A    TOMB.  31 

"She  sat  'neath  the  shade  of  an  oak  tree, 
Which  bent  o'er  the  slow-running  brook  ; 

And  in  her  white  hand  she  was  holding, 
A  neat,  little  blue-covered  book. 

"I  was  spell-bound  with  admiration, 

And  stood  like  a  man  in  a  trance  ; 
Till  she  lowered  her  book,  and  our  eyes  met, 

In  a  long,  earnest,  soul-searching  glance. 

"She  blushed  when  she  saw  the  tall  stranger, 

For  I  was,  indeed,  strange  to  her ; 
I  had  been  abroad  since  my  childhood, 

At  the  famous  old  school  of  St.  Cyr. 

"She  cast  down  her  eyes  in  confusion, 
Her  face  with  warm  blushes  was  dyed  ; — 

So,  blaming  myself  for  intrusion, 

I  moved  on  with  light,  springing  stride. 

'•Strange  feelings  thrilled  thro'  my  being, 

Sweet  feelings  I  could  not  explain ; — 
I  seemed  to  be  constantly  seeing, 

The  maid  by  the  brook-side  again. 

"But  I  knew  by  the  glance  that  she  gave  me, 
From  her  large,  dreamy,  liquid  black  eyes, 

That  my  heart  had,  indeed,  found  a  treasure, 
Had  indeed,  found  its  most  precious  prize. 

"Do  you  see  that  old  house,  all  in  ruins  ? 

Well,  that  was  the  Village  School,  then  ; 
And  May  was  one  of  its  teachers, 

And  she  lived  in  that  house  down  the  glen. 

"And,  at  eve,  I  would  walk  down  beside  her, 

Plucking  wild  flowers  by  the  way, 
And  one  evening,  I  asked  her  a  question, 

And  the  true  creature  did  not  say,  Nay. 

"So,  one  morn'  this  old  church-bell  was  ringing, 

Pealing  its  sweet  notes  of  glee  ; 
And  myriads  of  song-birds  were  singing, 

A  welcome  to  sweet  May  and  me. 

"We  stood  by  that  sacred  old  Altar, 

The  old  Rector  stood  by  our  side  ; 
And  spoke  those  blessed  words  to  us, 

Which  gave  May  to  me  for  my  bride. 

"The  great  organ  pealed  from  its  alcove, 

Its  notes  floating  out  on  the  breeze, 
And  the  sun  from  the  blue  sky  above  us, 

Showered  its  golden  rays  thro'  the  trees. 


32  THE    TALE    OF    A    TOMB. 

"Bright  dresses  flashed  thro'  the  dim  aisles, 
And  glad  voices  wished  us  success, 

And  we  left  the  old  Church  'mid  bright  smiles, 
With  no  hint  of  future  distress." 

Here  the  old  man's  face  seemed  to  brighten. 

As  he  thought  of  those  bright  scenes  of  yore, 
But  soon  a  gray  pallor  o'erspread  it, 

And  left  it  more  sad  than  before. 

He  remained  for  a  moment  in  silence, 
As  if  loath  to  go  on  with  his  tale  ; 

His  poor  limbs  tottered  beneath  him, 
They  were  so  enfeebled  and  frail. 

"Ah  !  little  thought  I,  that  fine  morning, 

When  we  left  this  old  Church,  man  and  wife, 

That,  ere  the  next  Summer's  returning. 
The  dark  shadow  would  fall  o'er  my  life. 

"Yet,  such  was  the  case,  dear  young  stranger, 
Consumption  laid  hold  of  her  frame, 

And,  in  spite  of  the  greatest  physicians, 
Death  came,  its  victim  to  claim. 

"She  was  taken  from  me  in  the  Spring-time, 
When  Nature's  fair  flowers  were  in  bloom, 

She  was  brought,  in  all  her  young  beauty, 
To  repose  in  this  time-wasted  tomb. 

"Again,  that  old  bell  tolled,  but  sadly, 

Softly  its  mellow  notes  fell, 
They  seemed  to  be  freighted  with  sorrow, 

As  they  floated  o'er  mountain  and  dell. 

"After  that,  1  went  back  o'er  the  ocean, 
To  still  the  dull  pain  in  my  breast, 

To  drown  in  new  scenes  my  emotion, 
And  give  my  poor  troubled  soul  rest. 

"But  the  spirit  of  May  brooded  o'er  me, 
No  matter  how  far  I  would  rove, 

Her  presence  went  ever  before  me, 
To  brighten  my  pathway  with  love. 

"Often  when  sleep's  fetters  bound  me, 
In  some  humble  cot  by  the  Rhine, 

I  have  felt  May's  spirit  arms  'round  me, 
And  her  spirit-lips  pressed  to  mine. 

"Oft'  in  the  vales  of  Bohemia 

When  the  sun  had  gone  down  for  the  night, 
I  have  fancied  my  Mary  came  to  me, 

Down  from  the  regions  of  light. 


THE    TALE    OF    A    TOMB.  33 

"When  I  paused  by  the  Switzer's  lone  dwelling, 

High  up  in  the  mountains  of  pine, 
A  sweet  voice  was  constantly  telling 

Me,  tales  that  were  sweetly  divine. 

"Oh  !  I  know  that  I'll  meet  her  in  heaven, 

When  my  pilgrimage  here  is  o'er, 
I  know  she  will  come  to  receive  me, 

When  I  land  on  that  beautiful  shore. 

"Such  love  as  we  had  for  each  other, 

Can  never  be  outlived  by  time, 
It  can  only  be  strengthened  by  parting, 

Tis  heaven  born,  deathless,  sublime.  ' 

He  gazed  for  a  time  on  the  grave  at  his  feet, 

At  the  stone  so  broken  and  maimed, — 
Then  turning  'round,  in  a  voice  sad  and  sweet, 

Looking  full  in  my  face  he  exclaimed  : 

"Young  man,  take  heed  to  what  I  now  say, 

Never  sorrow  as  I  have  done, 
Your  life  at  the  longest,  will  soon  pass  away, 

Your  mortal  race  soon  be  run. 

"Be  cheerful  and  happy  whenever  you  can, 

Take  life  at  its  brightest  phase, 
Take  counsel  and  guidance  from  an  old  man, 

Who  has  sorrowed  the  most  of  his  days. 

"Do  not  mourn  for  that  which  you  can  not  obtain 
Do  not  sigh  for  things  out  of  your  reach, 

Disappointment  will  come,  with  sharp,  bitter  pain, 
Its  hard,  cruel  lesson  to  teach. 

"Then,  farewell,  my  friend,  I  have  no  more  to  say, 

I  have  told  you  my  sorrowful  story, 
When  last  I  stood  here,  my  locks  were  like  jet, 

But  now  they  are  frosted  and  hoary. 

"But  every  white  hair  that  grows  on  my  head, 

Tells  a  sweet  tale  to  my  soul, 
It  says  I  am  just  on  Eternity's  brink, 

Almost  in  sight  of  the  goal." 

When  the  old  man  ceased,  he  moved  slowly  away, 

Leaning  heavily  on  his  stout  cane, 
His  back  was  bent,  his  locks  thin  and  gray, 

And  his  brow  bore  the  furrows  of  pain. 

Slowly  he  moved,  up  the  old,  country  road, 

To  his  great  gloomy  house  on  the  hill, 
The  dark  shades  of  evening  were  falling  around, 

And  the  Church-yard  was  dreary  and  still. 


34  THE    BOB  O-LINK. 

So  I  passed  out  the  gate,  pondering  the  while 

As  slowly  I  walked  to  my  home, — 
On  the  strange,  sad  story  the  old  man  had  told, 

As  we  stood  by  the  old  ruined  tomb. 

A  few  days  have  passed,  and  again  I  am  standing 

With  others,  around  that  old  tomb, 
The  day  is  now  bright  with  the  splendors  of  Autumn, 

And  the  sun  has  dispelled  all  the  gloom. 

A  new  grave  is  made  by  the  side  of  the  old  one 
T^he  fresh  earth  is  strewn  on  the  sod, — 

A  funeral  cortege  is  silently  moving 
Up  the  old  turn-pike  road. 

The  large  mellow  bell  on  the  new  Church  is  tolling 

Its  tones  floating  far  on  the  breeze, 
The  birds  are  rejoicing  and  singing  with  gladness 

In  the  boughs  of  the  lofty  pine  trees. 

'Tis  the  old  man's  remains  they  are  bringing  up  here, 

To  repose  till  the  dead  shall  awaken, 
Six  men  are  bearing  with  reverent  care, 

The  casket  the  soul  has  forsaken. 

So,  the  two  who  were  parted  in  youth's  happy  days, 
Whose  whole  earthly  journey  was  blighted 

Are  lying,  at  last,  in  the  grave  side  by  side, 
And  in  heaven  their  souls  are  united. 


THE  BOB-O-LINK. 

Beautiful  bob-o-link,  sing  to  me, 
Sing,  from  the  shade  of  the  chestnut  tree, 
Sing,  from  the  marge  of  the  sun-kissed  pool, 
Sing  from  the  meadows,  so  green  and  cool. 

I  love  thy  song,  sweet  bob-o-link, 
I  love  thy  song,  which  gushes  free, 

As  oft'  you  sit  by  the  brooklet's  brink, 
On  a  drooping  branch,  and  sing  to  me. 


SARA,    THE    MAIDEN    OF    DALRY.  35 

Poised  on  a  weed, 

Or  a  slender  reed, 

Which  the  wind  rocks  to  and  fro, 

Your  gushing  song, 

Is  wafted  along, 

O'er  the  fields  where  the  "ox-eyes"  grow. 

Oh,  I  love  to  hear 

Your  song  so  clear, 

Come  floating  o'er  the  lea  ; 

As  you  sit  and  sing 

On  the  reeds  which  swing, 

In  the  breeze  which  bloweth  free. 

O,  beautiful  bob-o-link,  sing  to  me, 
Thy  song  dwells  long  in  this  heart  of  mine, 
My  soul  re-echoes  your  songs  of  glee, 
Which  swell  from  no  other  throat  but  thine. 

Sing,  from  the  vales  where  the  cow-slips  grow, 
Sing,  from  the  glens,  where  the  streamlets  flow. 
Sing,  from  the  marsh  where  the  tall  reeds  quiver, 
The  songs  which  I  long  to  hear  forever  ! 

Beautiful  bob-o-link,  sing,  Oh,  sing, 
Free  o'er  the  plains  let  your  music  ring, 
Your  tremulous  notes  are  fraught  with  love, 
Passionate  bird,  with  the  heart  of  a  dove. 

Oft'  as  I  rove  through  the  fields  in  June, 
My  ear  is  pleased  with  your  gleeful  tune, 
You  fill  the  air  with  a  shower  of  sound, 
Which  lingers  long  in  the  stillness  round. 


SARA,   THE  MAIDEN  OF  DALR  Y. 

Hards  have  sung  in  days  gone  by, 
Of  knights  and  deeds  of  chivalry, 

But  I  shall  woo  the  muse  to  sing 
Of  Sara,  the  maiden  of  Dairy. 

Oh,  gentle  maid,  in  sun  and  shade, 
When  e'er  abroad  ye  chance  to  rove, 

May  bird  and  bee,  on  bush  and  tree, 
Fill  your  bosom  with  tender  love. 


SARA,    THE    MAIDEN    OF    DALRY. 

Burns  has  sung,  from  his  heart,  I  ween, 
Of  the  tender  charms  of  "Bonnie  Jean," 

He  sang  of  "Ballochmyle's  fair  lass," 
In  strains  no  minstrel  can  surpass. 

He  sang  of  his  "Mary,"  while  his  heart 
With  cruel  grief  was  rent  apart ; 

But  ah  !  those  three  could  never  vie 
With  Sara,  the  maiden  of  Dairy. 

O  beauteous  maid  !  O  fairest  flower  ! 

O  white  rose,  baptized  with  the  dew, — 
Cupid,  from  his  love-haunted  bower, 

Aimeth  his  white-winged  shafts  at  you. 

Take  care,  take  care,  O  maiden  fair, — 

Should  Cupid's  arrows  pierce  your  breast, 

Ah  !  then  you  will  know  how  sweet  it  is 
To  love,  and  suffer  love's  unrest. 

When  Spring  has  crept  from  Winter's  arms, 
And  matin  songs  pervade  the  air, 

When  balmy  April's  sunlight  warms 
The  wild-wood's  hollows  everywhere. 

When  in  each  sunny  sheltered  glen 
The  early  primrose  greets  the  eye ; 

Ah  !  then  my  heart  to  thee  shall  turn, 
Sweet  Sara,  maiden  of  Dairy. 

When  Summer  hangs  above  the  moors, 
And  the  soft  wind  rings  the  heather  bells, 

When  bees  drain  nectar  from  the  flowers, 
And  the  lowing  kine  pant  in  the  dells. 

When  droning  insects  float  along, 
And  gay-winged  butterflies  flit  by, 

Then  to  my  mind  shall  sweet  thoughts  throng, 
Sweet  thoughts  of  the  maiden  of  Dairy. 

When  Autumn  tints  with  gorgeous  sheen 
The  shimmering  aspens  on  the  hills, 

And  turns  to  brown  the  fields  once  green, 
And  freights  with  leaves  the  sluggish  rills. 

When  barns  are  full  of  garnered  sheaves, 
The  fruits  of  toiling  days  gone  by,— 

Then  memory's  loom  shall  fondly  weave 
Sweet  dreams  of  Sara  of  Dairy. 

When  Winter's  ermine  covers  deep 
Each  well-known_spot  with'purest  white, 


SARA,    THE    MAIDEN    OF    DALRY.  37 

Covers  the  vale,  the  gorge,  the  steep, 
For  weary  weeks  from  mortal  sight, 

When  lake  and  river,  loch  and  burn, 

Pressed  to  her  icy  bosom  lie, 
Then,  then,  my  wandering  thoughts  shall  turn 

To  Sara,  the  fair  maid  of  Dairy. 

Tho'  others  are  beautiful  as  dreams, 

Created  for  a  poet's  eye, 
They  lack   the  sweet  angelic  grace 

Of  Sara,  the  fair  maid  of  Dairy. 

I've  seen  fair  maids  from  o'er  the  sea, 

From  France  and  "fair  Italia," 
Beauties  from  green  Tyrolean  vales, 

And  sirens  from  far  Circassia. 

I've  seen  fair  maids  from  every  clime, 

Lovely  in  form,  in  face  and  eye, 
But  ah  !  how  all  their  beauty  pales 

Before  the  maiden  of  Dairy! 

Dear  Sara,  when  you  chance  to  stray 
Among  the  flowers,  when  day  is  done, 

From  the  white-thorn  break  a  spray, 
And  press  it  to  your  heart,  sweet  one. 

And  let  your  thoughts  for  one  brief  hour 
Withdraw  from  bird,  and  bush  and  tree, 

And  float  upon  the  wings  of  love, 
To  your  pensive  friend  beyond  the  sea. 

Let  youthful  bards  enamored  sing 

Sweet  sonnets  to  their  loved  ones'  eyes, 

Let  their  seraphic  music  wing 

Its  flight  to  realms  beyond  the  skies. 

Let  every  bard  of  every  clime 

Unite  with  me  before  we  die, 
To  praise  in  deathless,  fadeless  rhyme, 

The  bonnie  maiden  of  Dairy. 


38  APPEAL    FOR   IRELAND. 

AN  APPEAL  FOR  IRELAND.  * 

"He  that  giveth  to  the  poor,  lendeth  to  the  Lord. 

Ireland  calls  for  help,  my  brothers, 

Harden  not  your  hearts,  I  pray, 
You  are  famed  for  helping  others, 

Turn  ye  not  in  scorn  away  ; 
Send  her  gold,  and  send  her  treasure, 

Send  her  cloth,  and  send  her  food, 
She  is  hard  beset  with  famine, 

Hunger  stalks  through  farm  and  wood. 

All  day  long,  in  many  a  cabin, 

Children  wail  for  want  of  bread, 
Soon,  if  they  are  not  assisted, 

These  poor  creatures  will  be  dead. 
Oh  !  how  sad  to  hear  them  moaning, 

Pinched  with  hunger,  chilled  with  cold, 
Clothed  in  naught  but  ragged  garments, 

Suffering  pangs  of  pain  untold. 

Hear  the  wail  that  comes  from  Foxford  : 

"For  God's  sake  send  us  gold  or  food/' — 
While  from  Stokestown  comes  the  cry, 

"Hundreds  are  ruined  by  the  flood," — 
In  the  town  of  Castle  Blaney, 

Burning  fever  has  appeared  ; 
And,  if  help  is  not  sent  quickly. 

Most  appalling  scenes  are  feared. 

Men  in  far-off  California, 

Open  wide  your  purses,  do, 
Send  your  gold  to  help  "poor  Ireland,'' 

She  would  do  the  same  for  you. 
Ne'er  were  her  sons  known  to  falter, 

When  confronted  by  a  foe, 
Never  to  allow  a  stranger, 

Hungry,  from  their  door  to  go. 

Hear  the  summons,  Colorado, 

Send  your  mite  to  swell  the  tide, 
Which  is  flowing  to  the  Herald, 

From  the  country,  far  and  wide. 
Let  the  stream  be  widened  vastly, 

From  the  centre  to  the  sea, 
Let  each  one  at  least  do  something, 

And  the  poor  will  soon  be  free. 


APPEAL    FOR    IRELAND.  39 

Hunger,  famine,  desolation, 

Hover  o'er  the  "Emerald  Isle,1' 
Wind  and  rain  have  brought  destruction 

On  the  laborers  of  the  soil. 
Hunger,  famine,  desolation 

Linger  round  each  humble  cot, 
None  can  tell  how  dire  the  misery, 

Save  those  who  are  on  the  spot. 

But  the  Herald's  brave  reporters, 

Have  been  there  and  seen  it  all, 
They  have  gone  through  every  parish, 

From  "Kinsale"  to  "Donegal." 
They  have  seen  the  Irish  mother, 

Hoping,  praying  for  the  best ; 
Weeping,  with  her  famished  infant, 

Clinging  to  her  shrunken  breast. 

They  have  seen  the  stalwart  father, 

Broad  of  chest  and  strong  of  limb, 
Sobbing,  with  intense  emotion, 

At  the  woe  surrounding  him. 
Maddened,  at  the  sight  before  him, 

Starving  children,  starving  wife, 
Ready,  if  he  could  but  save  them, 

To  lay  down  his  very  life. 

So  from  Nevada's  silver  mountains, 

Let  the  contributions  flow, — 
From  the  homesteads  snugly  nestled, 

In  Minnesota's  zone  of  snow. 
From  the  forest-shrouded  country 

Where  sweeps  the  lonely  "Oregon," 
From  the  plains  of  far  Nebraska, — 

Let  the  stream  of  gold  flow  on. 

From  the  homes  of  "old  Kentucky," 

From  the  homes  of  Illinois, 
Let  there  come  a  golden  torrent, 

To  fill  old  Ireland's  heart  with  joy. 
From  the  mines  of  Pennsylvania, 

From  the  mines  of  Idaho, 
From  the  wealthy  mines  of  Utah, 

Let  the  golden  current  flow. 

From  New  Hampshire's  granite  mountains, 

From  the  green  hills  of  Vermont, 
From  old  sea-washed  Massachusetts, — 

Let  their  quota  reach  the  front. 


40  APPEAL    FOR   IRELAND. 

From  Connecticut's  busy  factories, 

From  the  industries  of  Maine, 
From  New  York's  great  mills  and  work-shops, 

Let  there  come  a  golden  rain. 

From  the  fruit-farms  of  New  Jersey, 

From  the  farms  of  Delaware, 
From  Rhode  Island's  homes  of  plenty, — 

Let  there  come  a  harvest  rare. 
From  Ohio's  boundless  forests, 

From  Virginia's  rolling  land, 
From  Mississippi's  great  plantations, 

May  there  come  an  offering  grand. 

From  every  part  of  this  great  Nation, 

Every  City,  State,  and  Town, 
From  every  village,  every  hamlet, 

Let  the  golden  shower  come  down. 
Rich  men,  give  of  your  abundance, 

Poor  men,  give  of  your  small  store, 
Send  your  offerings  to  the  Herald, 

And  they  will  soon  reach  Erin's  shore. 

Then,  O,  what  a  shout  of  gladness, 

Shall  be  borne  across  the  sea, 
Hunger  and  famine  shall  be  routed, 

From  the  homes  of  misery, 
Then,  O,  how  the  Irish  Nation. 

Shall  be  bound  with  bonds  of  love. 
To  this  generous,  grand  Republic, 

Which  can  all  its  ills  remove. 

Written  at  the  time  when  James  Gordon  Bennett  made  his  stirring  appeal 
in  the  New  York  HERALD  for  help  for  the  starving  poor  of  Ireland,  which 
was  so  nobly  responded  to. 


AMONG    THE    VIOLETS.  4! 


AMONG  THE  VIOLETS. 

Down  in  cool  dells, 
Where  bird-music  swells, 
And  clear  waters  fall, 
I  wander,  in  quest 
Of  the  flowers  I  love  best, 
The  fairest  of  all. 

Among  the  green  grass 
At  my  feet,  as  I  pass, 
The  blue  violets  lie, 
Moist  with  the  morning  dew, 
Waving  their  petals  blue, 
Modest  and  shy. 

I  pluck  the  blue  flowers, 
In  the  green  leafy  bowers, 
And  twine  them  in  wreaths  ; 
While  from  the  oak  trees 
Which  sway  in  the  breeze, 
Sweet  melody  breathes. 

I  seat  myself  down 

On  a  violet-strewn  mound, 

And  dreamily  gaze 

At  the  wild  hanging  vines 

Depending  from  pines, 

Where  the  morning  light  plays. 

Quite  close  to  my  feet, 
Two  rivulets  meet, 
And  laughing  with  glee, 
Flow  down  through  the  glen, 
Over  cascade  and  linn, 
Unfettered  and  free. 

Ah  !  one  year  ago 
I  sat  here  as  now, 
In  this  very  place  ; 
But  not  then  alone, 
For  beside  me  was  one 
With  a  form  of  rare  grace. 

We  were  pledged  to  be  wed, 
Ere  the  summer  had  fled, 
To  be  wedded  for  life. 
But  I  sit  here  alone, 
For  my  Violet  has  gone 
From  this  world  of  strife. 


42  THE    DESERTED    GRAVE. 


THE  DESERTED  GRAVE. 

Here,  by  this  lonely  grave, 

Musing  I  stand  ; 
While  the  tall  willows  wave 

On  either  hand  ; 
Whispering  breezes  float, 
'Round  this  deserted  spot; 
With  tender  mem'ries  fraught, 

God's  chosen  land. 

Over  this  lowly  tomb, 

No  sculptured  bust, 
Rises  amid  the  gloom, 

Sways  in  the  gust. 
No  pomp  is  here  displayed, 
But  few  words,  simply  said, 
"Ashes  to  ashes  laid, 

Dust  unto  dust.'1 

No  name  is  graven  deep 

Into  the  stone. 
No  one  comes  here  to  weep, 

Sad  and  alone. 
No  gentle  hand  has  set 
Myrtle  or  mignonette, 
Over  this  grave,  as  yet 

Nameless,  unknown. 

Only  a  granite  stone 

Broken  in  twain. 
Left  to  be  beat  upon 

By  wind  and  rain, 
Marked  by  the  feet  of  time, 
Mouldy  with  moss  and  slime, 
Save  where  the  ivies  climb, 

Hiding  each  stain. 

Now  as  I  stand  alone, 

By  this  old  mound, 
The  Autumn  breezes  moan 

Sadly  around. 
Clouds  flit  across  the  sky, 
Birds  to  the  southward  fly, 
Owls  from  the  shadows  cry, 

With  dismal  sound. 


FROM    EARTH    TO    HEAVEN.  43 

FROM  EARTH  TO  HEAVEN. 
Prologue. 

Oh !  Thou,  who  reigned  omnipotent  on  high, 

Before  the  sun  was  charged  with  latent  fire, 
Before  the  stars  began  to  cleave  the  sky, 

Arrayed  in  Heaven's  unchangeable  attire. 
Before  the  systems  which  we  now  behold, 

Evolved  from  chaos,  at  Thy  living  breath, 
Before  the  clouds  of  mystery  were  rolled 

Between  the  continents  of  Life  and  Death. 

Oh  Thou,  eternal  Heavenly  Father,  guide 

My  unskilled  pen,  to  do  its  mission  well ; 
Let  it  ascend  to  heights  yet  undescried, 

Let  it  descend  below  the  depths  of  hell, 
And  from  those  heights  and  depths  expose  to  man, 

Great  wonders,  hidden  since  the  world  was  made, 
To  show  the  wisdom  of  the  mighty  plan, 

By  which  we're  rescued  from  the  realms  of  shade. 

Cast  o'er  my  soul  the  mantle  of  Thy  power, 

Illume  my  mind  with  revelation's  light, 
Fling  wide  the  gates  of  heaven,  for  an  hour, 

And  let  its  glorious  beauties  float  before  my  sight  ; 
And,  rapt,  on  the  spirit  of  prophetic  thought, 

In  passion's  language,  I  shall  try  to  trace 
To  just  conclusions,  questions  ever  fraught 

With  mighty  interest  to  the  human  race. 

Oh  God  !  true  source  of  all  created  things, 

I'll  draw  my  strength  and  energy  from  Thee  ; 
For  Thou  art  "Lord  of  Lords,"  and  "King  of  Kings," 

And  Thou  dwell'st  ever  in  sublimity. 
Back  in  the  councils  of  the  buried  Past, 

Before  Creation  emerged  from  its  womb, 
Thou  reigned,  and  Thou  shalt  reign  at  last, 

When  Earth  and  Hades  shall  be  wrapped  in  gloom. 

Give  me  Thine  aid  in  this  adventurous  flight, 

And  I  will  give  the  glory  back  to  Thee, 
Lend  me  the  language  to  describe  aright, 

The  lights  and  shades  of  Immortality. 
And  borne  on  the  bosom  of  the  sacred  muse, 

I'll  journey  upward  to  the  courts  above, 
And  strive  to  paint  in  all  its  varied  hues, 

The  meek  perfection  of  a  Father's  love. 


44  FROM    EARTH    TO    HEAVEN.  % 

Nations  shall  rise,  and  flourish,  and  decay, 

Kingdoms  will  fall  beneath  the  tread  of  Time, 
Empires  and  dynasties  shall  be  swept  away, 

But  Thy  rule  shall  be  eternal  and  sublime  ; 
Princes,  and  peers,  and  peasants,  shall  arise 

And  "act  their  parts"  upon  the  stage  of  Life, 
Then,  dying,  some  will  journey  to  the  skies, 

While  others  sink  to  everlasting  strife. 

Ages  will  come  and  ages  pass  away, 

In  the  slow  sequence  of  their  usual  flight, 
Year  strung  to  year,  and  day  to  day, 

Morn  strung  to  morn,  and  night  to  night. 
Change  shall  be  stamped  upon  all  earthly  things, 

Ruin  shall  reign,  unchallenged,  over  all, 
Ivy  shall  cling  to  the  palaces  of  Kings, 

And  pyramids  and  towers,  crumbling,  shall  fall. 

All  things  terrestrial  shall  be  swept  away, 

On  the  stream  of  Time,  into  Oblivion's  sea, 
And  Time  itself,  which  holds  despotic  sway, 

Shall  be  engulfed  in  vast  eternity. 
But  above  all  change,  immutable  on  high, 

Thy  throne  stands  firm  in  majesty  and  power, 
Fixed  as  the  laws  that  regulate  the  sky, 

And  prescribe  the  limits  of  existence  to  an  hour. 

Death  cannot  scale  Thy  battlemented  towers, 

Nor  hurl  its  darts  against  Thy  massive  walls, 
Sin  cannot  loiter  in  Thy  peaceful  bowers, 

Where  music  floats,  and  cooling  water  falls. 
Suns  may  revolve  in  their  orbitual  grooves 

In  the  vast  expanses  of  immensity, 
Shedding  their  light  and  heat,  which  ever  prove, 

A  blessed  boon  to  poor  humanity. 

Planets  and  stars  in  sympathy  may  roll, 

Thro'  the  nameless  avenues  of  mysterious  space, 
Guided  by  forces  under  Thy  control, 

O  God  !  great  Father  of  the  human  race. 
Yet  all  these  agents  in  the  lapse  of  years 

Shall  fall,  like  victims  to  a  dread  disease, 
These  moons  and  planets,  which  each  night  appear 

Are  doomed  to  die,  by  heaven's  all-wise  decrees. 

Time  leaves  its  victims  in  its  wid'ning  wake, 

Its  shores  are  strewn  with  shattered  human  hopes, 

Its  funereal  waves  with  sullen  echoes  break 
Upon  the  cliffs  where  desolation  mopes. 


FROM    EARTH    TO    HEAVEN.  45 

Full  into  the  vortex  of  .the  passing  years, 
Fall  all  the  offspring  of  the  generous  earth, — 

Princes  and  peasants,  potentates  and  peers, 
Alike  are  hurled,  regardless  of  their  birth. 

Go  back,  in  fancy,  to  those  early  days, 

When  David  reigned,  in  all  his  regal  state, 
And  muse  of  the  temples  they  were  wont  to  raise 

To  stand  forever,  and  behold  their  fate. 
Where  are  the  towers  the  Jewish  people  built 

In  the  early  dawning  of  the  Christian  world  ? 
Long,  long  before  with  fratricidal  guilt, 

The  cursed  stigma  on  themselves  they  hurled. 

Some  are  standing  where  they  first  were  placed, 

Like  memories  reaching  from  the  buried  Past, 
Their  towers  are  scarred,  their  capitals  defaced, 

And  time  will  fling  them  to  the  dust,  at  last; 
While  some  are  lying  in  unsightly  heaps, 

Slowly  commingling  with  the  pregnant  soil. 
Above  their  ruins  gentle  ivy  creeps, 

To  hide  their  shame  from  man's  malicious  smile. 

Thus  time  deals  harshly  with  all  human  things, 

Its  ponderous  wheels  unceasingly  move  on, 
Like  car  of  Juggernaut  it  grinds  serfs  and  kings, 

And  shall  crush  all  until  its  work  is  done ; 
But  time  is  but  the  servant  of  the  Lord, 

The  force  by  which  He  executes  His  will, 
But  all  its  movements  at  a  given  word, 

Shall  cease  their  sounds  and  be  forever  still. 

But  high  o'er  all,  impregnable  to  change, 

Thy  throne  stands  firm  upon  its  solid  base, 
Wider  by  far  than  human  thought,  the  range 

Of  Thy  blessed  reign  o'er  uncomputed  space, 
Thou  art  the  great,  the  ever-living  God, 

The  first  and  last,  the  great  Almighty  Cause 
Of  all  created  things.     And  Thy  beloved  rod 

Can  raise  us  up  from  hell's  engulfing  jaws. 


46  DEATH    OF    GARFIELD. 


THE  DEA  TH  OF  GARFIELD. 

Bend  the  knee  and  bow  the  head  ! 
The  Chief  of  this  great  land  is  dead  ! 
The  great  Creator,  God,  has  sent 
Death's  chariot  for  our  President. 
The  grief  of  fifty  million  souls, 
Up  to  the  Great  White  Altar  rolls,— 
The  grief  of  a  Nation  stricken  low, 
By  the  cruel  deed  of  the  wretch,  Guiteau. 

Shot  in  the  back  and  wounded  sore, 

He  fell  full  length  on  the  depot  floor, 

And  the  ground  was  stained  with  the  noblest  blood 

That  e'er  from  a  martyed  hero  flowed, 

For  many  weary  weeks  he  lay, 

Watched  by  the  surgeons  night  and  day  : 

Each  change,  for  the  better  or  the  worse, 

Was  flashed  to  the  ends  of  the  Universe  ! 

Each  febrile  rise,  each  pang  of  pain, 
Was  winged  o'er  Continent  and  Main ; 
Each  rise  of  pulse  roused  dread  and  fear 
In  the  hearts  of  people  far  and  near. 
Brave,  earnest  words  from  kindly  hearts, 
Came  from  the  earth's  remotest  parts 
To  the  fond  wife,  whose  constant  care, 
Endeared  her  to  thousands  everywhere. 

And  the  dear  mother,  infirm  and  old, 
Bowed  down  with  sorrows  manifold, —  • 
A  Nation's  heart  went  out  to  her, 
A  Nation  yearned  to  comfort  her, — 
'Twas  vain  the  learned  doctors  strove 
The  abcess-breeding  ball  to  remove  ; 
In  vain   he  probed  the  cruel  wound, 
For  the  ball,  which  never  could  be  found 

Till  death  had  sealed  the  sufferer's  eyes, 

And  winged  his  spirit  to  the  skies, 

To  dwell  in  the  Kingdom  of  his  God, 

Who  guided  him  with  staff  and  rod 

Through  the  "dark  valley"  and  the  shades  of  death, 

O'er  the  dark  river  which  obstructs  the  path, 

Up  the  bright  stairway  to  the  streets  of  gold, 

To  meet  the  martyred  heroes  of  the  days  of  old. 


DEATH     OF    GARFIELD.  47 

They  bore  his  body  thro'  the  weeping  land, 
The  wasted  body  of  the  illustrious  dead  ! 
Back  to  the  shores  of  Erie,  old  Cleveland, 
Where  now  he  lies,  within  his  narrow  bed. 

Great  multitudes  came,  weeping,  from  afar, 
And  stood,  in  sorrow,  by  the  polished  track, 
VV  ith  heavy  hearts  they  viewed  the  funeral  car, 
Then,  sadder  still,  they  journeyed  homeward  back. 
The  fractious  students  of  old  Princeton  College, 
Withdrew  themselves  from  education's  bowers, 
Thrusting  back  their  burning  thirst  for  knowledge 
They  came,  and  strewed  the  track  with  choicest  flowers. 

So,  toll  the  bells  from  all  your  towers, 
And  strew  his  grave  with  Nature's  flowers. 
The  grave  of  our  martyred  Chief  shall  be 
Enshrined  in  each  heart  and  memory. 
Let  the  Stars  and  Stripes  droop  low, 
Our  sorrow  to  the  world  to  show  ; 
The  flag  which  floats  o'er  land  and  sea, 
Must  share  our  joy,  or  misery. 

Let  all  the  Crowned  Heads  of  the  earth, 
Remember,  how  from  humble  birth, 
He  rose,  by  his  industry  and  merit, 
To  as  high  a  throne  as  they  inherit. 
Though  his  line  could  boast  np  royal  blood, 
Nor  trace  their  lineage  to  the  flood, 
Yet  from  his  martyrdom  there  springs 
A  glory  seldom  known  to  Kings. 

James  A.  Garfield  is  no  more, 
His  pilgrimage  on  earth  is  o'er, 
But  thanks  to  God,  he  left  behind, 
The  fruits  of  his  majestic  mind.    • 
So,  bend  the  knee  and  bow  the  head, 
Approach  his  dust  with  reverent  tread  ; 
The  grave  of  a  mightier  man  than  he, 
Hath  not  been  made  for  a  century. 


48  SPRING    FLOWERS. 


SPRING  FLOWERS. 

The  flowers  of  Spring,  what  joy  they  bring 

To  hearts  with  grief  and  care  oppressed. 
How  sweet  they  bloom  above  the  tomb 

Of  winter,  dead  and  laid  to  rest. 
How  soon  they  come  to  cheer  our  homes, 

When  Boreas  has  been  put  to  rout, 
In  sheltered  nooks,  by  murmuring  brooks, 

The  tender  flowrets  first  come  out. 

In  mid-April,  when  the  sun's  warm  smile 

Floods  all  the  landscape,  far  and  near, 
The  crocus  wakes  from  its  sleep,  and  shakes 

Off  the  cumbrous  earth  with  its  emerald  spear. 
And  rising,  views  the  changing  hues 

Of  the  skies,  so  lately  dark  with  storms, 
Breaking  the  spell  of  its  perfumed  cell, 

It  stands,  arrayed  in  its  perfect  form. 

The  sweet  "May-flowers,"  in  the  sunny  bowers, 

Aroused  from  their  long  repose  and  dreams, 
Throw  off  the  leaves  which  the  wind  upheaves, 

And  open  their  hearts  to  the  sun's  warm  beams. 
Deep  in  the  woods  where  silence  broods, 

The  flowers  of  spring  are  bursting  through, 
Panting  to  drain  the  gentle  rain, 

Which  falls  on  their  leaves  like  crystal  dew. 

By  moss-hung  wells  in  sylvan  dells, 

The  modest  violets,  blue  and  yellow, 
Proudly  toss  their  silken  floss, 

In  the  amorous  sunlight,  soft  and  mellow. 

In  after  days  when  the  summer's  haze 

Hangs  hot  and  dull  o'er  the  drowsy  meadows, 
And  the  bob-o-link,  from  the  grassy  brink 

Of  the  brook,  seeks  the  oak's  refreshing  shadows  ; 
And  there,  in  the  shade  of  leaf  and  blade, 

Dreams  the  sultry  noon  away, 
Till  evening  steals  o'er  the  dewy  fields 

And  warmly  invites  his  roundelay.  , 

In  full,  ripe  June,  when  insects  swoon 
In  the  dreamy  halls  of  the  golden  bells, 

Nature,  profuse,  adds  richer  hues 
To  the  flowers  which  bloom  in  the  woodland  dells, 


THE    SKEPTICS    DREAM.  49 

In  those  glad  hours,  far  finer  flowers, 
May  bloom  in  the  cloistered  rural  glades, 

Far  richer  dyes,  drawn  from  the  skies, 
More  perfect  forms,  more  varied  shades. 

But  ah  !  give  me,  where'er  I  be, 

The  flowers  of  Spring,  for  I  love  them  best, 
The  flowers  which  burst  thro'  the  earth  when  first 

The  winter  winds  have  been  lulled  to  rest. 
The  flowers  of  spring,  what  hope  they  bring 

To  the  heavy  heart  which  beats  in  pain. 
They  seem  to  me  like  a  prophecy 

Of  vanished  joys  that  will  come  again. 


THE    SKEPTIC'S  DREAM. 

Once,  upon  a  costly  bed 
With  every  rich  material  spread, 
A  skeptic  lay.     His  senses  deep — 
Enthralled  in  the  dreamy  agent,  sleep. 
One  snowy  hand  of  perfect  mould, 
Lay  on  the  counterpane's  deep  gold, 
And  clenched,  and  twitched  as  if  in  pain, 
And  swollen  was  each  dark  blue  vein. 

His  bearded  lips  moved  when  he  stirred. 
But  every  muttered,  senseless  word. 
Was  lost  in  oblivion's  unknown  sea, 
Lost  to  the  world,  to  the  muse,  and  me. 
A  servant,  grave  of  visage,  stood 
In  an  easy,  graceful  attitude, 
Beside  the  window,  and  his  eyes 
Were  fixed  on  the  starry,  wintry  skies. 

At  times  he  would  turn  his  shapely  head, 

And  gaze  at  the  sleeper  on  the  bed. 

And  his  breast  would  heave  with  a  troubled  sigh, 

While  a  tear  would  dim  his  rich  dark  eye, 

For  he  knew  that  his  master  long  had  trod 

The  path  which  leads  away  from  God. 

He  knew  that  his  master  had  been  given 

To  scoff  at  the  God  of  earth  and  heaven. 


5°  THE  SKEPTIC'S  DREAM. 

The  room  was  hung  in  green  and  gold, 
On  the  walls  were  paintings,  rich  and  old, 
And  all  that  boundless  wealth  could  buy, 
From  every  clime,  'neath  every  sky, 
All  that  aesthetic  taste  most  craves, 
Beauties  to  which  aesthetes  are  slaves, 
Were  gathered  within  that  handsome  room, 
And  served  to  dispel  the  deepening  gloom. 

There  were  gems  exhumed  from  ocean's  caves, 

Stolen  by  divers  from  the  waves, 

Fabrics  woven  in  India's  looms, 

Relics  from  Rome's  Catacombs, 

Corals  from  the  coral  reefs, 

Marble  gods,  and  bas-reliefs  ; 

Sparkling  jewels,  rich  and  rare, 

Gems  an  Empress  well  might  wear. 

Cases  filled  with  ponderous  tomes, 
Found  but  in  the  richest  homes, 
Cabinets  filled  with  ancient  lore, 
Found  since  the  flood,  and  long  before  ; 
Handed  down  from  sire  to  son, 
Since  first  old  Time  commenced  to  run, — 
And  guarded  with  the  greatest  care, 
By  the  old  servant  standing  there. 

But  alas  !  'Mid  all  the  valued  books, 
Which  filled  the  shelves  in  obscure  nooks, 
The  Bible  seemed  to  find  no  place, 
It  was  excluded      And  no  trace 
Of  anything  which  tells  of  God, 
Was  found  within  that  rich  abode. 
Works  of  Hume,  Payne,  and  Voltaire, 
Found  a  warmer  welcome  there. 

An  hour  passed  on.     The  clock  beat  low 
On  the  marble  mantle.     While  the  glow 
Of  the  softly-shaded  chandelier 
Fell  on  the  objects  standing  near. 
On  the  bed  the  restless  sleeper  lay, 
But  his  face  seemed  haggard,  worn,  and  gray, 
Great  swollen  lines  traversed  his  brow, 
Which  bore  the  marks  of  anguish  now. 

It  seemed  as  if  some  mighty  war, 
With  its  attendant  joust  and  jar, 
Or  some  severe  internal  strife, 
Was  aiming  at  his  very  life  ; 
For  all  along  his  furrowed  brow, 


THE    SKEPTICS    DgEAM.  51 

The  blood  seemed  fast  to  ebb  and  flow, 
His  frame  was  writhing  in  distress, 
As  one  who  gazed  at  him  might  guess. 

But  soon  with  a  mighty  cry  of  fear 
Which  pierced  the  servant's  acute  ear, 
The  sleeper  bounded  from  the  bed, 
And  from  the  room  in  terror  fled. 
The  servant  quickly  followed  him, 
And  caught  him  in  the  parlor  dim, 
And  with  the  greatest  skill  and  tact, 
Brought  him  trembling,  panting,  back. 

For  a  time  the  Skeptic  seemed  to  fear 
That  some  dread  foe  was  lurking  near. 
The  slightest  sound  would  make  him  start, 
And  rise  as  if  about  to  dart 
In  terror  from  the  sleeping  room, 
Into  the  midnight's  thick'ning  gloom. 
But  the  faithful  servant  standing  near, 
Seemed  to  allay  each  passing  fear. 

Thus  in  alternate  fear  and  dread 

He  sat  upon  his  costly  bed, 

And  seemed  to  study  in  his  mind 

Whether  to  tell  his  faithful  hind, 

The  cause  of  the  fears  which  filled  his  breast, 

And  awoke  him  from  his  troubled  rest, 

And  caused  him  to  flee  as  if  pursued 

By  blood-hounds,  thirsting  for  his  blood. 

At  length,  standing  up  beside  his  bed, 
And  calling  his  servant  near,  he  said  : 
•'Pedro,  be  seated  by  my  side, 
And  I'll  tell  you  that  which  I  else  might  hide. 
I'll  tell  you  the  cause  of  the  sudden  fright, 
Which  came  o'er  me  on  my  couch  to-night," 
And  running  his  hands  thro'  his  snow-white  hair 
He  seated  himself  in  his  great  arm-chair. 

"Pedro,  when  first  I  sought  my  bed, 
My  mind  was  filled  with  what  I'd  read 
In  the  entrancing  pages  of  Thomas  Paine, 
The  thoughts  seemed  to  burn  into  my  brain. 
So,  at  last,  when  slumber  seemed  to  fall, 
O'er  my  senses  like  a  funeral  pall, 
A  marvelous  vision  seemed  to  rise 
Like  a  pictured  scene,  before  my  eyes. 

"I  saw  myself,  depicted  there, 

As  a  bent  old  man  with  frosty  hair ; 

I  knew  it  was  I  the  vision  meant 


5 2  THE  SKEPTIC'S  DREAM. 

E'en  though  my  stalwart  form  was  bent, 
And,  my  faithful  Pedro,  I'll  tell  it  you 
Scene  by  scene,  as  the  vision  grew. 
But  this  I  wish  to  impress  on  thee, — 
Remember,  the  aged  man  is  me." 

"I  saw,  upon  a  great  highway, 
An  aged  man  whose  hair  was  gray, 
Plodding  along  the  beaten  track, 
With  a  heavy  burden  on  his  back. 
1  tending  low  with  the  heavy  load, 
With  painful  steps  he  onward  trod 
Until  a  steep  ascent  he  spied, 
With  but  one  road, — straight  up  its  side. 

"He  paused  ;  and  cast  his  gaze  around, 
But  no  other  pathway  could  be  found, 
No  other  foot-path  could  he  see, 
Scaling  the  steep  acclivity. 
But  looking  up  to  the  dizzy  height, 
He  saw  a  grand,  a  glorious  sight : 
He  saw  a  man  as  old  as  he, 
With  steps  as  feeble,  hair  as  gray, 

"Climbing  up  the  narrow  road, 
But  ah  !  He  bore  no  crushing  load, 
Two  angels  bending  o'er  the  crest, 
In  heavens  immortal  garments  drest, 
Grasping  the  old  man's  hand  in  theirs, 
And  leading  him  up  the  golden  stairs. 
While  music  of  angel  voices  fell 
On  the  ears  of  the  candidate  of  hell. 

"Then  a  voice  spoke  out  from  a  blazing  bush, 

And  broke  the  awful,  solemn  hush, 

It  addressed  the  old  man  standing  there, 

In  words  which  filled  him  with  despair. 

Thus  spake  the  voice  and  its  accents  fell, 

On  the  old  man's  ears  like  death's  dread  knell : 

"  'You  see,  but  alas  !  It  is  now  too  late, 
That  you  have  toyed  with  the  hand  of  fate  ; 
You  marked  out  the  path  which  you  have  trod, 
Which  leads  not  to,  but  away  from  God, 
The  atheistic  doctrines  you  have  taught, 
Have  brought  you  down  old  man,  to  what  ? 
Down  to  the  shade  of  eternal  death, 
To  be  fanned  for  aye  by  Satan's  breath. 

"  'To  drink  at  the  lake  of  seething  fire, 
To  hear  hell's  wild  heart-rending  choir, 


THE  SKEPTIC'S  DREAM.  53 

To  explore  its  depths,  to  scale  its  heights, 
To  hear  its  sounds,  to  see  its  sights. 

"  'To  feel  its  horror  whelm  your  soul, 
To  see  great  sulphurous  clouds  uproll 
From  caldrons  boiling  far  below 
In  the  darkest  depths  of  the  pit  of  woe. 
To  hear  the  thund'rous  shocks  of  war, 
Which  all  the  vast  foundations  jar, 
To  see  the  demon-legions  vast, 
With  flaming  brands,  go  shrieking  past. 

"  'Their  eyes  emitting  sparks  of  fire, 
Their  passions  roused  with  hate  and  ire, 
Their  bodies  naked,  grim  and  brown, 
Their  hair  all  riven  from  the  crown. 
From  many  a  gaping  wound  and  sore, 
Pouring  the  tide  of  crimson  gore  ; 
Their  voices  uttering  curse  on  curse, 
Which  echo  through  Satan's  universe. 

"  'To  hear  the  story  often  told 

Of  the  dreadful  war  in  heaven,  of  old: 

How,  high  on  a  jewelled  throne  of  state, 

The  present  "Prince  of  Darkness"  sat, 

Surrounded  by  Angelic  bands, 

With  waving  palms  in  their  right  hands, 

Chanting  aloud  their  hymns  of  praise 

To  Him  who  rules  above,  always. 

"  'To  God  the  Father,  God  the  Son, 
And  God  the  Spirit,  Three  in  One, 
Be  honor,  praise,  and  glory  given 
By  all  on  earth  and  all  in  heaven.' 
This  is  the  song  the  angels  sing 
And  through  the  courts  above  it  rings, 
Swelling  out  into  mighty  strains 
As  on  it  rolls  o'er  heaven's  vast  plains. 

"  'But  soon  the  Prince  who  sat  so  high, 
In  the  glorious  councils  of  the  sky, 
Rebelled  against  the  mighty  One 
Who  rules  alike  the  sea  and  sun, 
And  all  the  vast  expanse  of  space, 
Every  planet,  sphere,  and  race, 
And  all  the  systems,  new  or  old, 
That  roll  through  space,  or  ever  rolled, 

"  'Rebelled,  and  tried  to  overthrow 
The  One  who  had  indulged  him  so; 
His  mad  ambition  led  him  on, 


54  THE  SKEPTIC'S  DREAM. 

To  war  against  the  Mighty  One. 

The  God  of  heaven,  and  earth,  and  sky, 

The  God  who  ever  rules  on  High, 

Omnipotent,  eternal,  just, 

Who  can  hurl  all  mortals  to  the  dust. 

"  'So  he  marshalled  all  the  force  he  could, 
And  then  in  grim  phalanx  they  stood 
Opposed  to  heaven's  imperial  host, 
They  fought  like  demons,  but — they  lost. 
For  about  the  space  of  half  an  hour, 
The  battle  raged,  with  desperate  power, 
And  victims  fell,  like  wintry  hail, 
Like  leaves  hefore  the  Autumn  gale. 

"  'Now  proud  victory  seemed  to  rest 
On  Beelzebub's  advancing  crest, 
Anon  the  tide  of  war  would  change, 
And  Heaven's  imperial  host  would  range 
In  serried  ranks  before  their  foes 
And  shower  upon  them  dreadful  blows  ; 
The  while  deep  thunders  rolled  above 
Around  the  mist-robed  throne  of  Jove. 

"  'But  soon  the  Prince  of  Darkness  fled, 
His  warriors  followed  where  he  led — 
Fled  o'er  the  inner  walls  of  heaven, 
By  the  righteous  army  driven, 
Then  on,  to  the  eternal  ramparts,  they 
Were  forced  to  stand  at  last,  at  bay  ! 
But  onward  swept  the  conquering  host, 
And  soon  the  inner  walls  were  crossed. 

"  'Then  rushing  on  their  hapless  foe, 

They  hurled  them  to  the  depths  below  ! 

And  there,  in  the  sulphurous  glooms,  are  they 

Designed  eternally  to  stay. 

Hemmed  about  by  walls  of  fire 

Which  year  by  year  are  burning  higher, 

Stirred  up  by  the  imps  of  hell, 

Who  seem  to  know  their  mission  well. 

"  'Such  are  the  tales  the  demons  tell, 
Far  in  the  dark  confines  of  hell, 
Such  are  the  tales  that  you  shall  hear, 
Month  on  month,  and  year  on  year  ; 
Such  are  the  sights  that  you  shall  see 
Through  the  cycles  of  eternity. 
O,  that  into  Oblivion's  sea 
Some  mighty  power  might  hurl  thee. 


THE    SKEPTICS    DREAM.  55 

"This  load  which  bends  your  back  so  low, 
And  goes  with  you  where  e'er  you  go, 
A  load  of  sin,  a  crushing  load, 
Could  not  have  gone  the  other  road. 

"  'But  ah  !  Could  you  but  live  once  more 
Your  life  with  all  its  chances  o'er, 
Would  you  then  scoff  at  the  word  of  God  ? 
Would  you  then  choose  the  flowery  road  ? 
The  flowery  road  of  ease  and  bliss 
Which  leadeth  down  to  hell's  abyss  !' '' 

"Here  the  sweet  voice  from  the  bush 
Ceased.     And  then  the  awful  hush 
Pervaded  all  the  scene  again, 
Unbroken,  save  by  this  refrain  ; 
Which  floated  down  from  heights  above, 
Freighted  with  a  wealth  of  love  ; 

"  'Praise  the  Lord,  the  blessed  Lord, 
Who  ruleth  by  His  gentle  word, 
Praise  the  Lord  of  Heaven  ;  yes 
Praise  Him  for  His  goodliness. 
Night  and  day  our  song  shall  be, 
Hail  to  the  God  of  Calvary, 
Hail  to  Jehovah,  who  arose 
Triumphant  over  all  His  foes.' " 

"Here  the  old  man  turned  around, 
And  changed  all  the  scene  he  found, 
The  road  which  scaled  the  dizzy  height, 
Greeted  no  more  his  aged  sight, 
And  all  along  the  backward  way, 
Up  which  he  had  toiled  that  very  day, 
Gigantic  basilisks  he  saw, 
With  fiery  eyes  and  open  jaw, 
Terrible  guardians  of  the  road, 
Which  led  up  to  the  realms  of  God. 

"He  turned  again.     And  lo,  there  stood 
Two  ponderous  gates  of  ebon  wood. 
Open  before  his  startled  eyes, 
Two  ebon  gates  of  marvelous  size ; 
And  over  them  in  words  of  fire, 
The  simple  legend  ;  'Welcome,  Sire.' 
And  from  them  came  a  dwarfish  form, 
Who  seized  the  old  man  by  the  arm, 
And  after  leering  in  his  face, 
With  the  most  horrible  grimace, 
He  said,  in  a  voice  half  ire,  half  glee  ; 
"Come,  honored  sir,  you  enter  free." 


56  THE  SKEPTIC'S  DREAM. 

"So,  bearing  still  his  load  of  sin, 
With  trembling  steps  he  passed  within 
The  sombre  portals,  nevermore 
To  pass  from  Saturnalian  power  ; 
The  portals  closed  with  a  noisy  clang, 
A  brazen  bell  above  them  rang  ; 
And  soon  before  the  old  man's  sight, 
There  heaved  a  lake  as  black  as  night. 

"This  is  the  famous  Stygian  river, 

Which  when  once  crossed,  is  crossed  forever  ! 

The  boat  which  bears  you  from  the  shore, 

Can  bring  you  backward,  nevermore. 

The  centuried  years  may  come  and  go, 

The  ocean's  tides  may  cease  to  flow, 

The  hoary  hills  may  rot  with  age, 

Trie  mighty  storms  may  roar  and  rage  ; 

The  earth  might  melt  with  fervent  heat, 

The  sun  might  loiter  on  its  beat, 

The  moon  and  stars  may  cease  to  move, 

Each  in  its  own  orbitual  groove, — 

"And  yet,  as  strange  as  it  may  seem, 
When  once  you  cross  that  mystic  stream, 
No  power  availeth  evermore 
To  bring  you  back  from  that  dread  shore. 

"While  on  the  bank  of  the  murky  stream 
The  old  man  stood,  he  saw  the  gleam 
Of  a  strange  light,  flashing  o'er  its  breast, 
Which  never  seem  to  pause  or  rest. 
He  heard  the  dip  of  a  muffled  oar, 
He  saw  a  boat  steering  in  for  shore, 
A  long,  low  boat  as  black  as  pitch, 
Steered  by  a  hideous,  leering  witch. 

"Manned  and  rowed  by  the  blackest  crew, 
That  ever  fell  on  a  mortal's  view. 
•Come,  old  man,  we'll  bear  you  o'er 
This  midnight  stream,  to  a  warmer  shore, 
Our  boat  is  waiting  ;  don't  delay, 
You'll  dine  with  our  great  King  to-day.' 

"Thus  spake  one  of  the  impish  crew, 
Whose  skin  was  tanned  to  a  coppery  hue, 
As  he  flourished  aloft  a  long,  thin  oar, 
And  pushed  the  boat  high  up  on  shore. 

"The  old  man  turned  and  would  have  fled 

Away  from  the  boat  in  fear  and  dread, 

But  there  stood  the  dwarf,  with  upraised  spear, 


THE   SKEPTICS    DREAM.  57 

His  face  lit  up  with  a  horrid  leer. 
Ready  to  cleave  him  to  the  ground 
If  he  so  much  as  made  one  bound. 
So  the  old  man  stepped  into  the  boat, 
And  it  shot  away,  as  quick  as  thought. 

"He  placed  himself  by  the  ding}'  mast, 
And  watched  the  crew  as  they  glided  past, 
They  leered  and  jeered  into  his  face, 
As  each  took  his  allotted  place, 
Some  to  row  and  some  to  steer, 
But  all  to  mock,  and  taunt,  and  jeer. 

"So  swiftly  the  boat  sped  o'er  the  tide, 

Headed  straight  for  the  other  side, 

And  the  sulphurous  breezes  fanned  the  cheeks 

And  bore  to  the  ears  many  dismal  shrieks, 

And  the  restless  waters  rose  and  fell, 

With  graceful,  undulating  swell, 

And  flocks  of  ravens  flew  about, 

Uttering  many  an  eldritch  shout, 

Flapping  their  wings  in  the  gaseous  air, 

As  if  their  rightful  place  was  there. 

"Lo  !  now  the  dark  Plutonian  shore, 
That  dreadful  coast,  looms  up  before 
The  eyes  of  those  on  board  the  boat. 
And  then  from  many  a  demon  throat, 
Triumphant  yells  of  glee  uprose 
From  souls  that  never  find  repose  ; 
Till  echoing  from  the  caves  of  hell, 
Came  back  the  wild  Saturnal  yell, — 

"Now,  Pedro,  we'll  leave  the  condemned  soul 
Just  in  sight  of  the  promised  goal, 
The  goal  of  all  his  earthly  schemes, 
The  goal  of  all  his  mid-night  dreams, 
The  goal  of  all  who  will  not  give, 
Jehovah  honor  while  they  live. 

"Who  scoff  at  God's  eternal  Word, 
Who  ridicule  the  risen  Lord, — 
Who  mark  out  courses  of  their  own 
To  reach  that  land,  as  yet  unknown, 
That  mystic  Land,  that  awful  bourne, 
From  whence  no  traveler  can  return, — 
Alas  !  that  human  souls  should  be 
Condemned  to  endless  misery. 

"Alas  !  that  human  souls  should  dwell 
Forever  !  in  the  depths  of  hell, 


58  THE  SKEPTIC'S  DREAM. 

And  by  their  own  volition,  place 
Themselves  beyond  the  reach  of  grace, — '' 

"Pedro,  when  to-morrow's  sun, 

Comes  o'er  yon  mountains,  dark  and  dun, 

And  floods  the  vales  with  its  soft  beams, 

And  kisses  all  the  silver  streams, — 

You  and  I,  with  might  and  main, 

Will  get  the  works  of  Hume  and  Paine, 

And  all  the  volumes  from  Voltaire, 

And  take  them  out  into  the  air, 

And  build  with  them  a  mighty  fire, 

And  as  its  flames  leap  ever  higher, 

I'll  let  my  soul  ascend  in  prayer 

To  the  God  who  ruleth  everywhere. 

"I'll  cast  myself  before  His  feet, 

And  from  my  breaking  heart,  entreat 

His  blessing  to  descend  on  me, 

That  from  my  past  sins  I'll  be  free, — 

Free  to  walk  the  earth  again 

Purified  from  every  stain  ; 

Baptized  in  the  crimson  tide, 

Which  flowed  from  the  blest  Savior's  side,- 

Blessed  blood,  which  floweth  free, 

From  the  Cross  of  Calvary, 

Blessed  blood,  which  shall,  some  day, 

Wash  all  sins  and  cares  away.'' 


WELCOME    TO    A    YOUTHFUL    BARD.  59 


WELCOME  TO  A    YOUTHFUL  BARD. 


ASSUMING     MYSELF     TO    BE     AN     OLD     AMERICAN   POET. 

Welcome,  fair  youth,  from  Europa's  shore, 

Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  to  this  mighty  Land, 
From  the  proud  eminence  of  my  wealth  of  years, 

I  extend  to  thee,  my  friendship  and  my  hand. 
The  goddess  Musa,  from  her  bounteous  store, 

Has  richly  endowed  thee  with  the  gift  of  song, 
Crowned  with  immortal  bays,  you  well  may  stand 

Among  the  proudest  of  her  gifted  throng. 

Heed  not  the  aspersions  of  the  envious  few, 

Who  would  deny  the  "divinity  of  song"  to  thee, 
Thy  soul  soars  up  in  an  empyrean  blue, 

Beyond  the  reach  of  their  scurrility. 
Let  not  the  pointless  wit,  nor  the  base  cartoon, 

Pierce  your  proud  heart  with  their  envenomed  stings, 
Your  God  has  blessed  you  with  a  greater  boon 

Than  e'er  was  given  to  the  proudest  Kings. 

Save  and  except  the  Poet-King  of  old, 

Whose  crown  of  song  outshone  his  crown  of  gold, 
Whose  Psalms  have  journeyed  down  the  centuried  years. 

Through  ages  drenched  with  precious  blood  and  tears. 
Again,  I  welcome  thee,  high-cultured  youth, 

I  bid  thee  welcome  to  my  home  and  heart, 
Go,  sing  the  wonders  of  this  mighty  land, 

Throw  o'er  each  scene  the  halo  of  thy  art. 

These  mountains  capped  with  their  eternal  snow, 

These  rivers  winding  thro'  a  fruitful  land, 
These  tufts  of  flowers  in  the  vales  below, 

These  bright-winged  birds,  which  flash  on  every  hand, 
These  woods  and  forests,  which  were  once  my  own, 

These  hollow  gorges  and  these  dark  ravines, 
These  foot-hills  girdled  with  their  cedar  zones. 

These  icy  steeps,  where  the  avalanche  careens. 

And  every  flower  which  blossoms  in  the  vale, 
And  throws  its  essence  on  the  summer  gale  ; 

Each  flower,  and  bush,  each  tree  and  vine, 
Appear  and  re-appear  in  those  songs  of  thine. 


60  WELCOME    TO    A    YOUTHFUL    BARD. 

Again,  I  bid  thee  welcome  to  our  land, 

Again,  I  offer  thee  my  friendship  and  my  hand. 

Again,  I  ask  thee  to  awake  thy  lyre, 
And  sing  these  glories  with  thy  youthful  fire. 

No  grander  scenes  have  ever  met  the  eye, 

Than  those  which  greet  your  vision  constantly, 
The  lone  Sierras  with  their  hoods  of  gray, 

Defy  the  sun  to  melt  their  snows  away, 
And  the  Alleghanies,  cleft  by  seam  and  glen, 

Bored  and  tunneled  by  industrious  men, 
Bored  and  tunneled  to  their  inmost  core, 

Yield  to  the  vandals  their  most  precious  ore. 

These  wide  lakes,  placid  as  the  morn" 

These  rolling  continents  of  grain  and  corn, 
These  mighty  reaches  of  unconquered  soil 

Which  yet  lie  waiting  for  the  sons  of  toil  ; 
All  these  I  give  thee,  for  thy  heritage, 

I,  who  have  loved  them  from  my  youth  to  age, 
I  give  them  to  thee,  Music's  willing  slave, 

To  sing  their  praises,  when  I'm  in  my  grave. 

O,  music-loving,  flower-adoring  youth, 

The  silver  sweetness  of  thy  songs  I  hear, 
Richly  freighted  with  immortal  truth, 

They  touch  the  heart,  and  please  the  cultured  ear  ; 
The  waxen  lily  hath  its  charms  for  thee, 

The  fine  gradations  of  each  tint  and  shade, 
Its  creamy  chalice,  ravished  by  the  bee, 

In  strains  unrivalled,  you  have  oft'  portrayed. 

Our  mountains  seldom  hear  the  sound  of  war, 

And  yet  to  me,  they  are  grander  far, 
Than  Alps,  or  Apennines  or  Carpathian  Range, 

Which  oft'  have  trembled  with  war's  dread  melange. 
Our  fruitful  vales,  where  the  peaceful  years, 

Are  crowned  with  the  garniture  of  golden  ears, 
Are  sweeter  far,  to  my  rapt  soul,  at  least, 

Than  all  the  glories  of  the  Mystic  East. 

Welcome,  again,  to  this  land  of  ours, 
Welcome,  dear  Poet,  from  another  clime, 

Come  to  our  hearts  aud  linger  in  our  bowers, 
And  lift  up  our  souls  with  thy  delightful  rhyme. 


SONG TO    MARY.  6 1 


SONG— TO  MARY. 

Enshrined  in  my  heart, 
Is  the  form  of  my  Mary, 
Enshrined  in  my  heart 
Shall  she  evermore  be; 
Earth  never  knew 
Such  a  winsome  wee  fairy, 
Earth  never  shall 
Hold  a  dearer  to  me. 

Oft'  have  we  roved, 
In  our  innocent  childhood, 
As  blithe  as  the  birds 
Which  sang  their  sweet  lays; 
Roved  at  our  will  through 
The  bird-haunted  wildwood, 
And  crowned  each  alternate 
With  laurels  and  bays. 

But  now  she  is  gone, 

And   her  sweet  form  shall  never, 

Never  on  earth 

Greet  my  vision  again, 

But  somewhere,  I  know, 

Over  death's  dusky  river, 

To  my  bosom,  my  Mary, 

Enraptured  I'll  strain. 


62  LONGINGS. 


LONGINGS. 

Fast  would  I  hold,  if  that  could  ever  be, 

The  years  which  seem  to  pass  too  quick  for  me, 

Fain  would  I  rest  forever  in  repose, 

Beneath  the  fragrance  of  the  pine  and  rose. 

Forth  would  I  sally  at  the  break  of  day, 

And  seek  this  nook,  sequestered  and  retired, 

And  here  with  "Dryden"  or  with  "Pope"  I'd  lie 

And  at  their  altars  would  I  kneel  inspired; 

O,  how  the  long  green  meadows  would  become 

Familiar  objects  of  my  eye  and  foot, 

I'd  know  each  bird,  its  hiding  place  and  home, 

I'd  know  each  herb,  each  flower,  each  root ; 

But  above  all,  I'd  learn  to  know  the  One, 

Who  rules  the  actions  of  the  earth  and  sun ; 

Who  holds  our  destinies  for  woe  or  weal 

Until  we  draw  them  from  life's  fortune-wheel, 

Fain  would  I  glide  adown  the  stream  of  time, 

Lulled  by  its  ripplings  of  love  in  rhyme. 

Charmed  by  the  beauty  on  its  haunted  shore, 

Which  should  refresh  my  soul  forever-more, 

Soothed  by  the  music  which  should  greet  my  ear, 

Music  of  voice,  of  viol,  and  of  lyre, 

Mingling  together  till  their  numbers  clear, 

Float  o'er  the  stream,  and  touch  the  heart  with  tire. 

Here  would  I  lie  upon  this  dewy  grass, 

And  watch  the  clouds  as  languidly  they  pass, 

Along  the  azure  avenues  of  heaven, 

By  the  warm  winds  from  the  eastward  driven. 

Here  would  I  listen  to  the  lark's  sweet  lay, 

The  lark  which  soars  far  in  the  misty  blue, 

Here  thro'  the  green  fields  would  I  ever  stray, 

And  pluck  the   flowers  which  have  the  richest  hue, 

Fain  would  I  wander  o'er  the  earth's  expanse, 

And  weave  in  every  vale  some  sweet  romance. 

I'd  view  the  scenes  which  other  bards  have  viewed 

And  linger  long  in  cloistered  solitudes. 

I'd  sing  by  streams  where  other  bards  have  sung, 

In  the  cool,  fresh  mornings  of  the  "long  ago," 

When  they  were  happy  and  when  they  were  young, 

Before  their  cup  of  bliss  was  turned  to  woe. 

But  alas !  I  know  the  verities  of  life, 

I  know  existence  is  an  endless  strife — 

Few  can  be  spared  from  out  the  busy  hives, 

To  drone  and  dream  in  idleness  their  lives — 

Few  can  be  spared  from  out  the  busy  throng, 

To  tread  the  paths  of  poetry  and  song. 


MY    QUEEN.  63 


MY  QUEEN. 

Angels  are  fair,  my  Queen,  my  Queen, 
Jewels  are  rare,  my  Queen,  my  Queen, 
Music  is  sweet  when  heard  at  eve, 
Fine  are  the  webs  the  Hindoos  weave, — 
Yet,  sweeter  than  music  in  evening  glooms, 
Richer  than  webs  from  India's  looms, 
Rarer  than  priceless  gems  are  rare, 
Fairer  than  angels  themselves  are  fair. 
Art  thou,  for  whom  such  love  I  bear, — 
Heart  of  my  heart,  light  of  my  "een," 
My  own,  my  own  !  My  Queen !  my  Queen  ! 

The  stars  shall  fall  and  their  mystic  light, 

Shall  be  quenched,  in  the  shrouding  glooms  of  night, 

And  the  glorious  sun  shall  cease  to  burn, 

And  this  grand  old  earth  shall  cease  to  turn  ;— 

And  the  roses  rare  shall  cease  to  unfold, 

Their  hearts  of  crimson,  and  pink,  and  gold. 

And  the  violets  lose  their  tender  sheen, 

When  I  cease  to  love  thee,  my  Queen  !  my  Queen  ! 


64  DEATH 


DEATH. 

No  statesman's  flowery  rhetoric, 

No  siren's  burning  breath, 
Can  have  the  least  impression, 

On  the  dull,  "cold  ear  of  death." 
The  darkest  shades  of  midnight, 

Or  the  brightest  beams  of  day, 
Alike  pass  on,  unheeded, 

O'er  that  form  of  lifeless  clay. 

The  wildest  wail  of  anguish, 

Or  the  saddest  moan  of  pain, 
Can  never  stir  the  pulses, 

Of  that  silent  heart  again. 
The  loudest  peals  of  thunder, 

Or  the  lightning's  flaming  red, 
Can  ne'er  disturb  the  slumbers 

Of  the  consecrated  dead. 

The  tread  of  mighty  armies, 

The  battle's  deafening  roar, 
The  loud  volleys  of  musketry, 

Can  wake  him  nevermore  ; 
The  sun  which  gilds  the  mountain. 

And  the  valleys,  far  beneath, 
Can  never  send  its  lances, 

Through  the  silent  gates  of  death. 

The  whispering  of  the  south  wind, 

Which  moans  among  the  trees, 
And  wakes  the  leaves  and  branches, 

Into  solemn  symphonies ; 
The  dismal  scream  of  sea-fowls, 

Which  skim  above  the  deep, 
Can  nevermore  awake  him, 

From  his  long,  eternal  sleep. 

The  sweetest  strains  of  music, 

Ever  heard  by  mortal  ear, 
Might  float  in  swelling  anthems, 

'Round  the  drapings  of  his  bier ; 
There  will  come  no  answering  echoes 

From  the  caverns  of  the  brain, 
For  the  spirit  has  departed, 

To  a  higher,  nobler  plane. 


WASHINGTON    IRVING.  65 

The  sweet  hymns  of  the  angels, 

And  the  "music  of  the  spheres," 
Blending  in  perfect  harmony, 

Now  fall  upon  the  ears 
Of  the  one  that  has  departed, 

Never,  never  to  return, 
From  the  shores  of  immortality 

Till  the  fires  of  judgment  burn. 


*  WASHINGTON  IR  VING. 

One  hundred  years  ago, 
The  angels  drew  aside  the  veil 

Which  separates  the  "Unknown"  from  the  Known," 
And  those  who  stood  beside  the  couch, 
With  throbbing  hearts,  gazed  upon  the  child, 
Who,  older  grown,  entranced  the  world, 
With  the  grandeur  of  his  imagery. 

Springs  of  sparkling  wit 
Welled  from  his  generous   heart,  and  the  deep  music  of  his 

nature 

Swelled  within  him,  and  flowed  from  him 
As  water  from  a  copious  spring,  first  fills  its  cell, 
Then  over-flowing,  wanders  through  the  wild, 
Singing  as  it  flows,  bearing  to  the  parched  desert, 

Life  and  regeneration. 

Methinks  the  angels  hymned  his  cradle  song, 
And  Seraphim  and  Cherubim 

Swept  their  lyres  with  softer  touch  when  he  appeared  ; 
And  those  who  watched  his  advent  to  the  earth, 
Must  have  felt  that  his  was  no  common  birth; 
They  must  have  felt,  instinctively,  that  he 

Should  be  a  child  of  Destiny. 

Lo,  what  great  events  have  happened  since  that  day 
When  in  his  innocence  the  sweet  babe  lay, 
Pure  as  the  snow,  upon  his  mother's  breast, 
In  the  pure  raiment  of  the  angels  dressed  ; 
Kingdoms  have  been  lost  and  gained, 
Empires  have  gone  down  in  night, 
Progressive  "thought"  has  been  unchained 


66  WHSHINGTON    IRVING. 

And  wears  the  crown  of  gold,  by  right; 
War  has  shook  the  earth  since  then, 
Her  bloody  sceptre  has  been  borne, 
O'er  every  mount,  through  every  glen, 

From  the  sunset  to  the  morn'. 
Steam  has  been  anointed  king, 
And  sways  its  sceptre  far  and  wide, 
Shod  in  bands  of  iron  and  steel, 
It  measures  space  with  giant  stride; 
A  nd  lightning  has  been  caught  at  last 
And,  driven  by  a  slender  rein, 
It  flees  o'er  plains  and  mountains  vast 
And  plunges  through  the  angry  main, 
Like  the  mad  steed  Mazeppa  rode, 
Or  the  Wild  Huntsman's  famous  horse, 
Nor  sea,  nor  Himalayan  height 
Are  obstacles  in  its  mad  course  ; 
Yet  all  the  good  that  has  been  done 
In  every  part  of  this  great  earth, 

Pales  before  the  greater  one  : 
The  good  conferred  by  Irving's  birth, 
I  need  not  sketch  his  boyhood,  nor  his  youth, 
His  love  for  learning,  his  reverence  for  truth, 
I'll  only  say  he  grew  to  man's  estate, 
Weak,  delicate,  and  affectionate. 
Gentle,  innocent  as  a  little  child, 
Tender,  sympathetic,  mild 
As  that  April  day  which  ushered  him. 
From  the  mystic  regions  of  the  seraphim. 
He  studied  law,  but  thanks  are  due  to  God, 
His  tongue  could  never  with  untruth  be  shod, 
He  learned  the  wiles  which  lawyers  all  employ, 
He  knew  that  for  one  part  gold,  there  were  99  alloy. 
He  could  not  stand  before  his  fellow-men, 
And  make  black  white,  then  make  white  black  again. 
I  need  not  sketch  his  wanderings  abroad, 
I  cannot  follow  in  the  paths  he  trod, 
I  cannot  linger  longer  to  explain 
His  diplomacy  at  the  court  of  Spain, 
I  cannot  pause  as  I  should  like  to  do 
To  bear  him  company  in  his  rambles,  through 
The  British  Islands,  and  the  Hebrides. 
Over  the  tall  Alps,  and  the  Pyrenees, 
Along  the  Italian  vales,  rich  with  flowers, 
Where  Cupid  revels,  in  ambrosial  bowers  ; 
For,  he  scrambled  o'er  high  Alpine  mountains, 
When  Summer  had  tinged  them  with  gold, 
He  lingered  by  Italian  fountains, 
And  dreamed  of  the  legends  there  told, 


WASHINGTON    IRVING.  67 

He  paused  by  the  Switzer's  lone  dwelling, 
And  drew  the  shy  babe  to  his  knee, 
While  his  heart  with  affection  was  swelling, 
For  his  loved  ones  beyond  the  deep  sea. 
He  went  where  the  hosts  of  Napoleon, 
With  banner,  and  bayonet,  and  plume, 
Swept  down  on  the  plains  of  Marengo, 

Fierce  as  a  fiery  simoom. 
He  went  where  that  same  host  was  driven, 
Like  chaff,  by  a  hurricane  too, 
By  Wellington's  fiery  battalions 
Backward  from  dread  Waterloo. 
He  roamed  thro'  the  vineyards  of  Florence, 
He  mused  by  the  mist-shrouded  Rhine, 
He  listened  to  Sicilian  Vespers, 
And  they  roused  thoughts  within  him  divine, 
He  sailed  through  the  lagoons  of  Venice, 
And  strayed  through  the  broad  streets  of  Rome, 
Yet  his  heart  was  eternally  yearning 
For  America— Sunnyside — home  ! 
Through  all  his  works  there  runs  a  tender  vein, 
His  wildest  wit,  suggests  an  inward  pain, 
A  yearning  love  for  one  whom  death's  decree 
In  youth  had  robed  in  immortality. 
Tho'  Rip  Van  Winkle  brims  with  fun  and  wit 
Yet  there's  an  under-tone  of  pain  in  it. 
Many  a  child  has  been  dissolved  in  tears, 
When  hearing  of  Rip,  who  slept  for  twenty  years, 
Up  in  the  bosom  of  the  solemn  hills, 
Which  cluster  round  about  the  grim  Catskills. 
He  has  peopled  those  hills  for  all  time  to  come, 
With  old  Dutch  settlers  of  enormous  size, 
With  bodies  round,  and  belted  like  a  drum, 
With  ruddy  faces,  and  small  twinkling  eyes. 
To-day;  the  tourist  in  those  solitudes 
When  idly  rambling  through  the  summer  woods, 

Often  imagines  he  can  really  see, 
A  well-fed  Dutchman  in  each  bush  and  tree. 
He  has  left  to  posterity  a  wealthy  store 
Of  the  best  type  of  legendary  lore. 
And  every  boy  or  girl,  at  eventide, 
Should  think  of  him  who  lies  at  Sunnyside. — 
One  hundred  times  this  day  has  come  sxv&gone, 
One  hundred  times  around  the  sun,  has  turned 
This  mighty  orb  that  we  are  placed  upon, 
One  hundred  times  the  Autumn  fires  have  burned 
On  the  eternal  hills. — And  in  the  vales, 
One  hundred  seasons  have  the  resounding  flails 
Borne  gladsome  tidings  to  the  busy  mills 


68  WASHINGTON    IRVING. 

From  well-filled  barns  upon  the  sloping  hills. 
One  hundred  times  the  Winter  winds  have  wailed, 
One  hundred  times  mild  Spring  has  sat  enthroned, 
One  hundred  times  rich  Summer  has  prevailed, 
And  by  her  bounty  amply  has  atoned 
For  fallow  Winter,  and  unfruitful  Spring, 
And  filled  the  Autumn  with  rich  harvesting. 
And  yet  that  April  day  shall  ever  be, 
Enshrined  and  holy  in  each  memory. 
Other  names  have  shot  athwart  the  skies, 
Meteor-like,  they  rose  and  shone,  and  fell ; 
But  "Irving"  like  a  steady  star,  shall  rise, 
Till  all  the  earth  shall  know  his  writings  well, 
The  name  of  Irving  shall  be  loved,  revered 
As  long  as  truth  and  purity  endure, 
The  splendid  monuments  which  his  genius  reared, 
The  world's  devotion  for  all  time  secure. 
Succeeding  centuries  shall  augment  his  fame 
And  weave  a  wreath  around  his  honored  name. 
And  now,  comes  the  saddest  scene  of  all, 
The  tears,  the  dissolution,  and  the  pall, 
The  funeral  cortege,  and  the  tolling  bell, 
We  all  alas  !  know  what  these  are,  too  well. 
The  last  sad  kiss. upon  the  pallid  brow 
The  shrouded  forms  weeping  by  the  bier, 
The  last  soft  touch  upon  the  locks  of  snow, 
The  closing  lid,  the  sobs  of  loved  ones  near, 
The  long  procession  to  the  house  of  God, 
The  prayers  ascending  to  Jehovah's  throne, 
The  spirit  of  sadness  which  is  all  abroad, 
The  trembling  choir,  the  organ's  undertone, 
The  flowers,  the  wreaths  of  immortelles, 
The  solemn  journey  to  the  hallowed  tomb, 
The  awful  hush — the  sobbing  of  the  bells, 
The  very  atmosphere  of  grief  and  gloom, 
O  God  !  This  scene  is  known  too  well  to  all, 
And  in  Thy  name  we'll  let  the  curtain  fall, 


*This  poem  was  written  by  special  request  of  President  Mansfield,  of  the 
Irving  Literary  and  Dramatic  Association,  and  read  at  the  Annual  Reception 
held  April  3,  1883. 


A    DIRGE.  69 


A  DIRGE. 


Beat,  dreary  rain, 
Lash  the  wet  pane, 

Of  my  room. 
Ye  howling  winds  rave 
O'er  the  year's  lonely  grave 

Hung  in  gloom, 

The  old  year  has  fled, 
All  its  voices  are  dead 

For  evermore ! 
All  my  hopes,  once  so  bright 
Have  sunk  down  in  night 

To  rise,  nevermore  ! 

In  the  gloom  of  despair, 
I  recline  in  my  chair, 

And  ponder,  alone, 
While  the  demon  Remorse, 
Through  my  mind  takes  its  course, 

Spurred  fiercely  on. 

I  hear  the  sad  dirge, 

Of  the  sea's  heaving  surge, 

As  it  lashes  the  shore. 
And  the  scream  of  sea-bird, 
In  the  wild  night  is  heard, 

Above  the  dull  roar 

Of  the  wild  waters  lashing, 
And  writhing,  and  dashing. 

Against  the  bleak  coast, 
Where  the  weeds  and  long  grasses 
In  damp,  tangled  masses, 

By  the  wild  waves  are  tossed. 

Beat  on,  dismal  rain, 
In  accord  with  the  pain 

Which  gnaws  at  my  heart. 
This  midnight  of  gloom, 
Like  the  great  hand  of  Doom, 

Can  never  depart. 

It  has  fall'n  like  a  cloud, 
Or  a  dark  sable  shroud, 
And  enveloped  my  soul. 


7O  A    DIRGE. 

And  no  ray  of  light 
Seems  to  pierce  through  the  night, 
Only  dark  shadows  roll, 

And  thunders  held  back, 
For  a  final  attack, 

When  the  last  hour  has  come  ; 
'Tis  no  wonder  I  moan, 
As  I  sit  here  alone 

In  this  surf-beaten  home. 

I  advance  to  the  sash, 
Where  the  icy  rains  dash, 

And  gaze  at  the  sea  ; 
How  the  wild  waters  rise  ! 
Almost  up  to  the  skies, 

Untrammeled  and  free. 

Far  away  down  the  coast, 
Like  a  sentinel  or  ghost, 

The  old  light-house  stands, 
With  its  light  gleaming  far, 
Over  ocean  and  bar, 

Over  bleak  barren  sands. 

I  hear  the  wind  shriek, 
Through  each  crevice,  and  creak, 

As  it  sweeps  fiercely  by, — 
And  I  shudder  to  muse, 
O'er  the  furies  let  loose, 

When  we  come  to  die. 


UNDER    THE    ROSE-BOWER.  /I 


UNDER  THE  ROSE  BO  WER. 

Under  the  rose-bower  Maud  reclineth, 

Draped  in  her  robes  of  linen  fine, 
A  lance  of  the  dying  sun-light  shineth 

On  her  fair  face,  half  divine. 

Around  her  the  odorous  breath  of  roses, 
The  breath  of  the  roses  of  early  June, 

Floats  o'er  the  couch  where  she  reposes, 
Half  in  slumber,  and  half  in  swoon. 

Hidden  among  the  rich  red  roses, 

Veiled  by  the  vines  from  my  true  love's  eye, 
I  gaze  on  my  Maud  as  she  reposes. 

Ah !  little  she  knows  that  I  am  nigh. 

O,  matchless  Maud  !  O,  maiden  fair! 

Fair  as  the  Goddess  of  the  dawn, 
O,  were  I  the  rose  in  your  yellow  hair, 

That  your  red  lips  oft  are  pressed  upon. 

O,  were  I  the  rose  in  your  yellow  hair, 

I  would  die  while  your  lips  were  pressing  mine, 

Die,  on  the  fragrance-scented  air, 
And  smile  in  those  angel  eyes  of  thine. 


s 

72  IN    MEMORIAM GRANT. 


IN  MEMORIAM— GRANT. 

Hushed  was  the  busy  hum, 
Which  from  the  work-shops  come, 
Naught  but  the  muffled  drum, 

Smote  on  the  ear. 
Solemnly  swayed  the  crowd, 
Many  with  old  age  bowed, 
Eager  to  see  the  shroud 

Or  the  dark  bier. 

Soldiers  with  measured  tread. 
Guarded  the  lowly  bed, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  dead, 

Calmly  at  rest. 
Lay  in  the  tranquil  sleep, 
"  From  which  none  wake  to  weep," 
Angels  their  vigils  keep, 

In  white  raiment  drest. 

Flags  at  the  half-mast  hung,  , 
Crape  from  the  buildings  swung, 
Bells  in  the  turrets  rung, 

Mournful  and  low. 
Swift  over  land  and  sea, 
Came  words  of  sympathy, 
Framed,  O,  so  tenderly, 

Deep  grief  to  show. 


ODE    TO    SCOTLAND.  73 


ODE   TO  SCOTLAND. 

O,  Scotland,  Country  of  my  birth, 
Dearest  Land  to  me,  on  earth, 
None  can  tell  thy  honest  worth, 

Until,  like  me 

They  have  been  driven  from  thy  soil, 
By  the  harsh  demands  of  toil, 
Lured  by  fickle  Fortune's  smile, 

Across  the  sea. 

Many  a  year  has  passed  away, 
Since  1  set  sail  from  Gourock  Bay, 
And  braved  the  broad  Atlantic's  spray, 

And  driving  foam, 
To  seek  this  new  land  in  the  West, 
Where  Freedom's  fathers  came,  in  quest 
Of  liberty,  when  sore  oppressed 

And  taxed,  at  home. 

But  tho'  the  years  have  come  and  gone, 
Like  silent  shadows,  one  by  one, 
I  love,  and  shall,  till  life  is  done, 

Thy  sacred  soil, 
I  love  thy  purple-belted  hills, 
Thy  winding  streams  and  rushing  rills, 
Thy  busy  towns  and  whirling  mills, 

Thy  sons  of  toil. 

But  O,  above  them  all  I  love, 

The  bards  who  haunted  every  grove, 

And  tried  in  every  way  to  prove, 

Their  love  for  thee. 
The  bards  who  sang  of  rural  themes, 
And  wove  them  into  rhythmic  dreams, 
And  caught  such  clear,  prophetic  gleams, 

Of  things  to  be. 

Thy  gifted  sons  can  ever  claim, 
A  foothold  on  the  heights  of  fame, 
And  stand  aloft  and  write  their  names 

In  words  of  fire, 
High  on  the  Muse's  mystic  seat, 
Where  all  the  great  immortals  meet, 
To  raise  to  heaven  their  anthems  sweet, 

With  voice  and  lyre. 


74  KISSING. 

Immortal  Burns  and  Tannahill, 
Scott  and  Hogg,  Carlyle  and  Mill, 
These  names  the  Scottish  heart  can  thrill, 

Through  endless  time ; 
They  wrote  as  if  by  heaven  inspired, 
Their  burning  hearts  with  love  were  fired, 
And  high  above  the  clouds  aspired 

Their  thoughts  sublime. 

I  love  the  mountains,  and  the  floods, 
The  highland  glens,  and  lowland  woods, 
The  chasms  where  deep  solitudes 

Have  .reigned  for  years, — 
Unbroken,  save  by  cleaving  wing, 
Or  by  the  brook's  soft  murmuring, 
Or  by  the  songs  the  linnets  sing, 

When  void  of  fears. 


KISSING. 

Lean  your  head  upon  my  shoulder, 
Turn  your  face  around,  like  this — 

Close  your  eyes  as  if  in  slumber, 
Now,  you  angel,  for  my  kiss. 

Down  my  face  comes,  nearer,  nearer, 
Till  my  lips  are  pressed  to  thine, 

O,  my  own  !  I  love  you  dearer, 
Every  time  thy  lips  touch  mine. 

How  I  clasp  you  to  my  bosom, 
How  our  hearts  in  union  beat, 

Is  there  aught  in  earth  or  heaven, 
Half  so  tender,  half  so  sweet. 

Now,  our  first  long  kiss  is  over, 
Open  wide  your  eyes,  my  pet, 

But  do  not  think  your  ardent  lover, 
Has  had  all  his  kisses  yet. 

Now  another  on  your  sweet  lips, 
Now  one  on  each  rosy  cheek, 

Now  they  fall  so  fast,  so  rapid, 
I  could  not  count  them  in  a  week. 

But  hark !  a  foot-step  in  the  hall- way, 
Some  one's  coming,  I  declare  ! 

Quick  !  be  looking  out  the  window  ! 
And  I'll  sit  here  on  this  chair. 


THE   MOON.  75 


THE  MOON. 

See  yon  bright  moon  that  rides  so  proud, 
On  the  bosom  of  that  silvery  cloud 

High  in  the  eternal  skies. 
Note  the  play  of  its  mellow  beams, 
On  the  wooded  hills,  and  the  rippling  streams, 
And  the  far-off  mount'  where  it  faintly  gleams 

Thro'  the  mists  that  upward  rise. 

Note  how  it  sends  its  yellow  light, 
Afar  off,  over  the  waters  bright, 
Where  a  noble  ship  looms  up  in  sight, 

Tossed  on  the  ocean's  foam. 
Laden  with  precious  merchandise, 
Gathered  'neath  sunny  Southern  skies, 
The  costliest  woods,  and  the  rarest  dyes, — 

On  its  joyful  journey  home. 

See  how  it  gilds  yon  rugged  steep, 
Where  the  torrent  takes  its  last  wild  leap, 

Ere  it  dashes  itself  to  spray. 
And  watch  how  it  bathes  all  the  forest  trees, 
Which  wave  and  toss  in  the  evening  breeze, 
And  turns  all  the  vales  into  liquid  seas, 

As  it  goes  on  its  cloud-strewn  way. 


76  TO   EDGAR    ALLEN    POE. 


TO  EDGAR  ALLEN  POE. 

Bard  of  the  melancholy  mind, 

Thy  sufferings  must  have  been  refined, 

In  the  mills  which  never  cease  to  grind, 

The  cruel  mills  of  sorrow. 
No  dearth  of  water,  steam  or  wind, 
Can  make  those  mill-wheels  cease  to  grind 
The  human  heart,  the  human  mind, 

The  very  marrow. 

Bard  of  the  night,  let  the  night-winds  rave, 
In  mournful  cadence  round  thy  grave, 
Let  the  wind-god  flee  from  his  hollow  cave, 

To  guard  thy  tomb. 

Let  the  stars  which  gem  the  arch  of  night, 
Pause  for  an  instant  in  their  flight, 
And  each  one  shoot  a  lance  of  light, 

Athwart  its  gloom  ! 

Peace  to  thy  ashes,  sombre  shade, 

Sombre  shadow  of  a  shade, 

Blest  be  the  spot  in  which  you're  laid, 

Forever  blest. 

May  the  embalming  winds  of  even', 
Blown  from  the  darkened  vault  of  heaven, 
Float  o'er  thine  honored  tomb  like  leaven, 

Leaven  of  rest. 

Grief  sat  upon  thy  noble  brow, 
White  and  fair  as  virgin  snow, 
Thy  silken  raven  locks  hung  low, 

O'er  seam  and  furrow  ; 
The  dreadful  demon  of  unrest, 
Had  its  abode  within  thy  breast, 
Thy  mental  being  seemed  possessed, 

Of  some  strange  sorrow. 

Bard  with  the  soul  of  mid-night  gloom, 
You  seemed  to  walk  beside  a  tomb, 
The  awful,  dark,  and  dismal  tomb, 

Of  some  lost  treasure  ; 
Sulphurous  seemed  your  thoughts  to  glow, 
You  drained  the  deadly  dregs  of  woe, 
It  seemed  as  if  you  ne'er  could  know. 

An  earthly  pleasure. 


TO    EDGAR    ALLEN    POE.  77 

Your  life  was  full  of  sad  reverses, 
Blessings  oft'  were  turned  to  curses, 
And  anger,  which  misfortune  nurses, 

Filled  your  breast. 
Your  pages  bear  the  deep  impress, 
Of  a  soul  which  oft'  had  known  distress, 
And  sunk  to  the  depths  of  wretchedness, 

At  grief's  behest. 

Day  was  turned  to  darkest  night, 
Whate'er  you  touched  it  seemed  to  blight, 
Aught  which  gave  you  pure  delight, 

Was  doomed  to  die. 
Loved  you  a  flower  of  fairest  hue, 
It  withered  and  died  before  your  view, 
It  seemed  as  if  death's  lightning  flew 

From  your  dark  eye. 

You  deified  the  goddess  Love, 
You  thought  her  but  a  gentle  dove, 
And  yet  how  often  did  she  prove, 

A  treacherous  jade  ; 
She  took  your  soul  by  storm  for  days, 
And  stole  into  your  matchless  lays, 
And  drove  you  on  by  devious  ways, 

From  sun  to  shade. 

O,  master  of  the  trenchant  pen, 

My  soul  is  now,  where  yours  was  then, 

My  bosom  seems  to  be  the  den 

Of  warring  fiends. 
Love  and  hate,  with  zeal  and  zest, 
Rend  and  lacerate  my  breast, 
But  when  my  bones  are  laid  to  rest, 

Their  violence  ends. 

Not  till  then,  O,  not  till  then, 

Great  Master  of  the  sombre  pen, 

Will  these  wild  passions  leave  their  den, 

Within  my  breast  ; 
Not  till  I'm  laid  within  the  grave, 
Not  till  the  grass  shall  o'er  me  wave, 
Shall  I  cease  to  be  the  slave, 

To  love's  unrest. 

You  mourned  as  bard  ne'er  mourned  before, 
For  a  maiden  whom  you  called  Lenore, 
Tidings  of  whom  you  did  implore, 

The  stately  "raven," 
WTho  sat  upon  the  marble  bust, 


78  TO   EDGAR    ALLEN    POE. 

And  into  your  heart  its  black  beak  thrust, 
Ant!  tore  its  bleeding  tendrils,  just 
Like  a  coward  craven. 

In  vain,  in  vain,  did  you  implore 
The  bird  above  your  chamber  door, — 
Naught  would  he  say  but,  "Nevermore," 

That  one  dread  word. — 
Just  returned  from  the  shores  of  night, 
And  seated  there  in  the  dim  fire-light, 
He  never  moved  from  left  to  right, 

He  never  stirred. 

But  ever,  when  you  questioned  him 
His  visage  would  grow  harsh  and  grim, 
His  eyes,  which  erst  were  dull  and  dim, 

Would  brighten  more. 
And  when,  with  over-burdened  heart, 
Full  to  your  feet  you  would  up-start, 
And  pray  him  tidings  to  impart 

Of  your  lost  Lenore. 

Those  dull  eyes  of  his  would  gleam, 
Like  a  demon's  waking  from  a  dream. 
And  staring  straight  at  you,  he'd  scream 

The  one  word,  "Never-more." 
That  one  dread  word  which  gave  you  pain, 
Because  you  knew  that  ne'er  again, 
Could  you,  impassioned,  warmly  strain 

To  your  bosom,  sweet  Lenore. 

Now,  I,  a  humble  bard,  and  poor, 
Sitting  here,  solemn  and  demure, 
Unknown  to  the  outside  world,  obscure 

As  I  well  can  be, 
Seated  this  bleak  December  night, 
By  the  wide  hearth  which  blazes  bright, 
While,  without,  the  snow  has  clothed  in  white 

Each  bush  and  tree. 

The  clock  on  the  mantle  above  my  head. 
Beats  on  and  on,  with  steady  tread, 
The  fire  through  my  cosy  room  has  shed 

A  dull  red  glow. 
Sitting  here  musing  all  alone, 
My  heart  seems  suddenly  turned  to  stone, 
For  I  hear  a  sigh  like  a  spirit's  moan, 

The  spirit  of  Poe. 

Into  my  mind  there  come  and  go, 
Those  ideal  fancies  of  Allen  Poe, 
Those  death-like  pictures  of  human  woe 


TO    EDGAR    ALLEN    POE.  79 

Which  thrill  the  soul  ; 
Those  awful  pictures  his  fancy  drew, 
Which  thrill  the  being  thro'  and  thro', 
And  bring  up  clearly  to  the  view 

Wierd  ghost  and  ghoul. 

I  can  see  as  I  ne'er  have  seen  before, 
An  ideal  picture  of  sweet  Lenore, 
The  maiden  whom  Allen  placed  before, 

All  earthly  women. 

My  mind  portrays  her,  young  and  fair, 
With  azure  eyes  and  auburn  hair, 
With  a  form  cast  in  a  mould  so  rare, 

That  it  scarce  seemed  human. 

0,  bard  of  the  melancholy  mind, 

Tho'  I  search  the  earth,  I  ne'er  shall  find, 
Another  bard  whose  thoughts  are  twined 
Around  my  heart ; 

1,  too,  have  known  what  suffering  is, 
I,  too,  have  bade  adieu  to  bliss, 

I  know  that  grief,  dread  Nemesis, 
Follows  apart. 

I  know  that  soon  my  soul  shall  be, 
Launched  into  an  unknown  sea 
And  O,  if  I  could  meet  with  thee, 

I  should  be  blest ; 
If  I  could  meet  thy  sombre  shade, 
In  its  saintly  robes  arrayed, 
I'd  help  thee  find  thy  long-lost  maid, 

Ere  I  should  rest. 

Yea,  if  I  could  but  search  with  thee, 
Where-e'er  two  spirit  forms  could  flee, 
E'en  to  the  brink  of  Eternity 

I'd  go  with  pleasure, 
I'd  wind  my  arm  around  thy  waist, 
And  go  with  thee,  with  anxious  haste, 
And  search  thro'  heaven's  dominions  vast, 

To  find  thy  treasure. 

And  when  success  our  search  had  crowned, 
When  sweet  Lenore  at  last  was  found, 
And  you  had  caught  her  from  the  ground, 

To  your  heart  delighted ; 
With  reverence  I  would  move  apart, 
And  thank  Jehovah  in  my  heart. 
That  they  on  earth  so  torn  apart, 

Were  at  last  united. 


8o  WHEN    THE    SEA    GIVES   UP    ITS   DEAD. 


WHEN  THE  SEA  GIVES    UP  ITS  DEAD. 

O,  the  years  like  icy  spectres, 
Have  drifted  slowly  by ; 
Ten  cruel  years  of  sorrow, 
Have  dimmed  my  once  bright  eye, 
They  have  left  no  hope  to  cheer  me, 
Through  the  years  before  me  spread, 
And  I  know  I'll  ne'er  be  happy, 
"Till  the  sea  gives  up  its  dead.'' 
Till  the  cruel  sea,  the  foamy  sea, 
Gives  up  its  dead,  its  dead. 

My  Jimmy  was  a  braw  lad, 

The  bonniest  lad  in  town, 

His  hair  likes  rings  of  yellow  gold. 

O'er  his  broad  brow  fell  down. 

He  loved  me  with  a  love  so  true, 

And  soon  we  were  to  wed, 

But  alas  !  My  love  can  ne'er  be  mine, 

Till  the  sea  gives  up  its  dead. 

The  briny  sea,  the  raging  sea 

Gives  up  its  dead,  its  dead. 

He  pressed  me  to  his  honest  heart, 

I  mind  it  was  in  June, —  » 

And  told  me  to  be  brave  and  true 

And  he  would  come  back  soon. 

"I'll  come  back  from  the  stormy  seas, 

To  wed  you,  Jean," — he  said. 

But  I  know  he  never  can  return 

"Till  the  sea  gives  up  its  dead." 

The  cruel  sea,  the  angry  sea 

Gives  up  its  dead,  its  dead. 


FRAGMENTS.  8 1 


FRAGMENTS. 

LINES.  ON  A  MUMMY. 

O,  mummied  hands  ! 
Mute  mementoes  of  other  lands  ; 

O,  mummied  feet ! 
Torn  asunder  from  their  winding  sheet. — 

O,  mummied  form  ! 

Hid  for  centuries  from  corruption's  worm  ; 
Better,  far  better,  had  it  been  for  these 
Had  they  been  cast  into  the  angry  seas, 
Better  had  Egypt's  leagues  of  shifting  sands, 
Covered  forever,  feet,  and  form,  and  hands ! 


CREATION. 

Creation  dawns  !  O,  shout  aloud  ; 

Ye  Angelic  heralds  of  the  sky, 

The  earth  has  dropped  her  dripping  shroud 

And  rises  in  her  majesty. 

Chaos  has  assumed  a  form, 

Death  has  quickened  into  life, 

Heaven  has  gemmed  her  azure  dome, 

And  beauties  everywhere  are  rife. 

From  High  the  glorious  mandate  comes, 

"Let  there  be  light,"  and  light  shines  forth, 

And  bathes  the  world  in  its  rosy  beams, 

South.  East  and  West,  and  the  ice-bound  North. 

The  waveless  waters  of  the  sea, 

Now  rise  and  fall  with  gentle  motion, 

The  earth  springs  up,  and  on  her  breast, 

Bears  up  many  a  heaving  ocean. 


RETIREMANT. 

The  fairest  flowers  capricious  Nature  yields, 
Are  those  which  bloom,  and  fade,  and  die  unseen ; 
The  rarest  gems  which  earth's  kind  bosom  shields, 
Are  those  which  lie  where  man  has  never  been ; 
The  brightest  stars  which  wheel  amid  the  skies, 
Are  those  too  distant  for  our  eyes  to  see, 
The  highest  flights  to  which  our  thoughts  arise. 
Are  buried  deep  in  dark  obscurity. 


82  FRAGMENTS. 

CHAOS. 

Come  with  me  in  imagination, 
To  a  time  before  the  world's  creation, 
When  ages  rolled  unmarked  away, 
And  darkness  reigned  eternally. 
On  High,  great  ebon  clouds  rolled  on, 
Unswept  by  wind,  unwarmed  by  sun, 
Slowly  they  moved,  with  noiseless  pace, 
Till  lost  in  the  farthest  depths  of  space  ; 
No  light  broke  through  the  awful  gloom, 
No  life  awoke  the  shuddering  spell, 
Creation  stirred  in  Eternity's  womb, 
And  Chaos  moved  in  its  shapeless  cell. 
In  the  depths  a  shoreless  ocean  lay, 
Black  with  the  shadows  brooding  there, 
Its  bosom  calm.     No  foam,  no  spray, 
Arose  in  the  cold  and  gaseous  air, 
But  high  above  this  aimless  mass, 
In  the  chamber  of  the  "King  of  Kings" 
Was  planned  all  that  shall  come  to  pass, 
Till  Time  has  folded  up  her  wings. 


LABOR.  83 


LABOR. 


Let  others  throw  their  time  away, 
In  idle  ease  or  senseless  play, 
I  shall  work,  yea,  every  day, 

For  work  is  noble. 
Honest  labor  drives  away 
The  poor  man's  trouble. 

Labor  nerves  the  weakest  arm, 
Labor  makes  the  heart  more  warm, 
Labor  adds  a  healthy  charm 

To  beauty's  cheek  — 
Work  in  shop,  in  field  or  farm, 

Makes  strong  the  weak. 

Labor  broad,  wide  acres  tills, 
Labor  scales  the  highest  hills, 
Labor,  joined  to  courage,  will 

Move  ever  on ; 
Nothing  can  deter  it,  till 

Its  work  is  done. 

Labor  earns  the  daily  bread, 
Labor  clears  the  dullest  head, 
Labor  makes  the  peasant's  bed, 

A  bed  of  ease. 
Kings  in  vain  have  fought  and  bled, 

For  such  calm  peace. 

Labor  lightens  every  care, 
Labor  drives  away  despair, 
Labor  makes  the  wild  to  wear 

A  smiling  face ; 
Honest  labor,  rough  or  fair, 

Is  no  disgrace. 

Labor  makes  the  anvil  ring, 
Labor  makes  the  hammer  swing, 
Labor  makes  the  mill-wheels  fling 

Their  dripping  blades  ; 
Labor  makes  the  rustics  sing 

In  rural  glades. 


84  LINES — IN    AN    ALBUM. 

Labor  scales  the  Pyrenees, 
Labor  steers  the  trackless  seas, 
Labor  from  all  bondage  frees 

A  sturdy  race. 
Labor  drives  away  disease 

From  many  a  place. 

There  are  fields  of  golden  grain, 
Ripened  well  by  sun  and  rain, 
Waiting  for  the  stalwart  swain 

To  lay  them  low  ; 
Come,  there's  many  a  tufted  plain 

For  men  to  mow. 

There  are  mighty  trees  to  hew, 
Mountains  to  be  tunneled  through, 
Cities  to  be  built  anew, 

In  this  broad  land  ; 
O,  there's  endless  work  to  do 

On  every  hand. 


LINES— IN  AN  ALB  UM. 

When  from  the  rosy  halls  of  morn  ; 
The  sun  ascends  upon  its  way, 
And  scatters  all  the  shades  of  night, 
Before  its  bold,  imperious  sway; 

And  when  at  eve  it  has  gone  down 

Behind  the  grand  old  Western  hills, 
Then,  Mary  dear,  my  prayer  shall  be, 
That  God  may  guard  you  from  all  ills. 

Dear  friend  of  many  a  joyful  hour, 
Friend  of  my  happy  school -boy  days, 
Though  trials  come  in  after  years, 
Yet  I'll  remember  you  always. 

I'll  still  remember,  Mary  dear, 
Your  gentle,  smiling  face  so  fair, 
And  O,  when  death  has  closed  our  eyes, 
I  pray  that  we  may  meet  up  there. 


UNSTRING    MY    HARP.  85 


UNSTRING  MY  HARP. 

Since  I  have  failed  to  touch  the  heart, 
With  limnings  of  the  Muse's  art, 
Since  I  have  failed  to  rouse  the  soul, 
From  pleasure's  lethargic  control; 
Since  I  have  failed  to  catch  the  spirit, 
Which  the  immortal  bards  inherit, 
Ye  powers  above,  I  now  implore, 
Unstring  my  harp  !  I'll  sing  no  more. 

Since  I  have  failed  with  all  my  wiles 

To  wreath  dame  Fortune's  face  in  smiles. 

To  chase  away  the  angry  frown 

With  which  she  bears  my  fond  hopes  down 

Since  I  have  come  to  know  my  weakness, 

I  can  say  with  all  due  meekness, 

E'en  though  my  heart  is  wounded  sore, 

Unstring  my  harp,  I'll  sing  no  more. 

Since  I  have  failed  to  strike  the  key, 
Which  throbs  with  human  sympathy, 
And  failed  alike  to  rouse  the  flame, 
Which  urgeth  to  immortal  fame  ; 
Why  should  I  longer  strive  in  vain 
And  rack  alike  my  heart  and  brain  ; 
I  say,  as  I  have  said  before, 
Unstring  my  harp,  I'll  sing  no  more. 

Since  now  I  know  I  cannot  soar, 
And  sing  with  the  bards  that  I  adore, 
Since  I  know  that  I  can  ne'er  aspire 
To  rove  with  the  poets  I  admire, 
Since  now  I  know  I  cannot  wander 
Where  Parnassian  streams  meander, 
Resigned,  my  heart  says  from  it's  core, 
Unstring  my  harp,  I'll  sing  no  more. 

O,  envied  Bards  of  the  olden  times  ! 
The  world  gave  ear  to  your  tuneful  rhymes, 
Your  simple  sonnets,  songs  and  tales, 
Were  heard  in  a  thousand  peaceful  vales  ; 
The  tender  firstlings  of  your  brains, 


86  UNSTRING    MY    HARP. 

Were  heard  o'er  all  the  world's  wide  plains, 
Your  songs  of  love,  your  songs  of  war, 
Were  sung  by  minstrels  near  and  far. 

Minstrel  old,  and  troubadour, 
Sang  your  stanzas,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Before  the  Castles  of  the  great, 
Who  left  the  grave  affairs  of  state 
To  listen  to  the  Runic  rhymes 
From  bards,  perhaps  of  other  climes, 
And  mighty  lord,  and  stately  dame, 
Scattered  far  and  wide  your  fame. 

O,  envied  bards  of  other  days, 

The  minstrels  old  who  sang  your  lays, 

Are  now  alas  !  consigned  to  dust, 

Their  harps  are  left  to  rot  and  rust ; 

And  naught  but  memory  now  remains 

To  reproduce  their  melting  strains  ; 

Their  harps  are  hanging  on  the  walls, 

Of  many  old  Baronial  Halls, 

And  none  dare  wake  those  silent  strings 

Which  often  pleased  the  ear  of  kings. 


THE    WORD    OF    GOD.  87 


THE  WORD  OF  GOD. 

As  time  wings  its  weary  flight  away, 
Mutation's  finger  stamps  the  passing  hours, 
No  earthly  force  its  onward  march  can  stay, 
No  human  skill  can  interdict  its  powers. 
The  grandest  towers  will  crumble  into  dust, 
The  finest  buildings  perish  and  decay, 
All  human  things  will  fall  beneath  its  touch, 
All  earthly  grandeur  will  be  swept  away. 

Pomp  and  pageantry  shall  exist  no  more, 
No  trace  shall  mark  the  place  where  they  abode, 
The  mighty  earth,  from  ocean's  shore  to  shore, 
Shall  be  consumed.     But  the  Word  of  God 
Shall  stand,  amid  the  awful  wreck  of  time, 
Shall  stand,  when  its  wheels  have  ceased  to  move, 
Shall  stand,  O,  how  glorious,  how  sublime  ! 
A  monument  of  a  dear  Redeemer's  love. 

Yea,  amid  the  terrors  of  a  blazing  world, 
Amid  the  thunders  of  the  last  great  day, 
When  fiery  planets  to  the  depths  are  hurled, 
God's  holy  Word,  shall  hold  eternal  sway  ; 
All  nature's  glories  which  delight  our  eyes, 
Are  doomed,  like  all  terrestrial  things,  to  fade, 
The  mighty  mountains  towering  to  the  skies, 
In 'smoking  ruins  shall  at  last  be  laid. 

The  starry  heavens  will  be  quenched  in  night, 

Suns  will  set  to  rise  on  earth  no  more, 

Unseen  systems  in  the  realms  of  space, 

Shall  cease  their  motion,  their  existence  o'er. 

But  God's  own  Word  shall  never  pass  away, 

Fixed  as  the  laws  of  heaven  it  shall  stand ; 

For  while  yet  chaos  hung  upon  the  deep, 

This  "Book  of  Books"  by  God  himself  was  planned. 

Then  let  this  Book,  O  mortals,  be  your  guide, 
For  it  alone  bears  heaven's  eternal  seal, 
For  it  alone  can  point  you  out  the  road 
Which  leads  through  death.     It  alone  reveals 
The  will  and  purpose  of  the  "King  of  Kings," 
Whose  reign  extends  while  long  succeeding  years 
Roll  on,  unmarked,  unheeded.     It  alone 
Can  far  outlive  the  swift-revolving  spheres. 


88  GENEVIEVE. 


GENEVIEVE. 

'Tvvas  all  in  the  dusk  of  evening, 
The  sacred  dusk  of  eve, — 

I  drew  to  my  heart  my  treasure, 
My  darling  Genevieve. 

The  red  rose  blushed  beside  us, 

The  lily  Hushed  anew, 
As  I  drew  to  my  heaving  bosom 

The  one  that  I  loved  so  true. 

Firmly  I  held  my  darling, 
Tenderly,  my  sweet  dove, 

As  into  her  ear  I  whispered 
My  burning  tale  of  love. 

Was  ever  a  love  more  tender  ? 

Was  ever  a  love  more  true  ? — 
The  stars  looked  down  in  splendor, 

But  the  moon  was  hid  from  view. 

Her  dear  head  on  my  shoulder, 
Her  sweet  lips  half  apart. — 

Her  willowy  form  swayed  over 
Till  we  stood  there,  heart  to  heart. 

O,  the  bliss  of  that  sweet  moment, 

The  joy,  the  ecstasy  ; — 
The  red  rose  touched  the  lily's  lips, 

With  its  crimson  cheek,  ah  me  ! 

I  drew  her  nearer,  closer, 
I  bent  my  head  down  low, — 

Her  dark  eyes  shone  like  stars, 
Her  cheeks  were  all  aglow. 

Soft  kisses  rained  on  rosy  lips, 
Dark  tresses  unconfined. — 

Around  her  graceful,  slender  form, 
My  arms  were  closely  twined, 

A  moment  thus  we  stood  there, 
As  in  a  dream  or  swoon, — 

The  soft  wind  swept  aside 
The  clouds  which  veiled  the  moon. 


GENEVIEVE.  89 


The  lily  sighed :  "O,  love,  sweet  love, 
"O,  love,''  the  rose  sighed  then, 

And  the  wind  swayed  the  lily  round 
Till  it  touched  the  rose  again. 

So,  there  in  the  dusk  of  evening, 

The  sacred  dusk  of  eve, 

My  soul  held  sweet  communion, 

With  the  soul  of  Genevieve. 

And  only  the  rose  and  the  lily, 
The  stars  and  the  dreamy  air, — 

The  red,  red  rose  with  heart  a-flame, 
And  the  lily,  so  wondrous  fair, 

Looked  on  while  I  told  my  story, 
The  old,  old  tale  of  love ; — 

While  I  held  to  my  heaving  bosom, 
My  Angel,  my  Queen,  my  Dove. 


90  A   SABBATH    SCENE. 


A  SABBATH  SCENE. 

Over  all  the  dreamy  landscape, 
Hangs  a  sky  of  leaden  hue, 
Belted  thick  with  zones  of  purple, 
Vailing  the  ethereal  blue  ; 
And  beneath,  the  misty  reaches, 
Stretching  far  toward  the  west, 
Where  the  stately  oaks  and  beaches, 
Wave  on  many  a  mountain  crest. 

Over  all  the  scene,  a  silence 
Deep,  and  calm,  and  holy  broods, 
Peaceful  as  the  bowers  of  Eden, 
In  their  deepest  solitudes. 
Just  below  the  grassy  plateau 
Where  I  sit,  and  muse,  and  dream, 
Lying,  like  unburnished  silver, 
Spreads  a  deep,  majestic  stream. 

And  beyond,  upon  its  margin, 
Stands  a  Village,  quaint  and  old, 
With  the  queerest  roofs  and  gables, 
Covered  o'er  with  moss  and  mould  ; 
From  the  chimneys  upward  rising, 
Slow  the  misty  smoke  ascends, 
Upward  to  the  fields  of  ether, 
Where  its  own  existence  ends. 

Through  the  streets  the  well-dressed  people, 

Walk  with  slow  and  solemn  mien, 

On  toward  the  Church,  whose  steeple, 

High  above  the  grove  is  seen  ; 

Idle  on  the  sleepy  waters 

Lie  the  mill-wheel's  oaken  blades, 

While  the  miller's  blooming  daughters, 

Ramble  through  the  twilight  glades. 

Hushed  are  all  the  sounds  of  labor, 
Silenced  is  the  noon-day  gong, 
Nothing  seems  to  break  the  stillness 
Save  the  robin's  joyous  song. 
And  the  lowing  of  the  cattle 
In  the  dewy  meads  below, 
Where,  knee-deep  in  dewyjpasture 
They  are  walking  homeward  slow. 


A    MAY    DAY. 

Not  a  breath  of  wind  is  stirring 
In  the  crimson-tinted  trees, 
Where,  at  times,  it  onward  sweeping, 
Tosses  them  about  at  ease  ; — 
All  is  rest  and  peace,  and  silence, 
Undisturbed  by  sounds  of  toil, 
Even  Nature  feels  the  sweetness 
Of  a  Saviour's  loving  smile. 


A  MAY  DAY. 

A  rich  warm  haze 
Flooding  all  the  wood-land  ways, 
The  sunlight  sifting  through  a  mist, 
Bathes  the  earth  with  mellow  rays. 

O'er  the  mountains,  o'er  the  leas, 
Softly  floats  a  perfumed  breeze, 
Making  the  violets  nod  their  hoods 
Of  purple  hue,  near  the  budding  woods. 

The  humming  of  insects  floating  by. 
Their  bright  wings  flashing  lazily, — 
The  dreamy  hush  of  earth  and  sky, 
Calls  to  life  sweet  thoughts  in  me. 

Green  are  the  fields, 
Tranquil  the  streams, 
Which  flash  in  the  sun's 
Half-shrouded  beams. 

Hazy  clouds  are  in  the  sky, 
Birds  on  golden  wings  flit  by, — 
O,  it  is  a  day  of  bliss, 
Seldom  seen  in  a  world  like  this. 


92  THE    HAUNTED    BELL. 


THE  HAUNTED  BELL. 

Ever,  on  the  stroke  of  midnight, 

In  the  festive  Christmas  time, 
Rings  the  haunted  bell  of  Linda, 

Rings  aloud  its  solemn  chime. 

Far  above  the  ruined  Abbey, 

High  within  the  crumbling  tower, 

It  has  hung  and  rung  for  ages, 
At  the  dreary  midnight  hour. 

Round  the  dark,  decaying  turrets, 
Blear-eyed  bats  and  owlets  wheel, 

While  the  foxes  from  their  coverts, 
Through  the  shadowy  ruins  steal. 

Through  the  aisles  the  night-winds  whisper, 

O'er  the  walls  the  ivies  creep, 
Desolation  broods  and  triumphs 

At  the  harvest  it  shall  reap, 

When  old  Time,  with  clammy  fingers 

Wields  the  sickle  of  Decay, 
When  the  towers  of  Abby  Linda 

Have  forever  passed  away. 

But  I  must  begin  the  story, 

Told  by  "Gipsy  Nell"  to  me, 
When  I  met  her  near  the  forest, 

'Neath  the  spreading  linden  tree  : 

"Do  you  see  those  towers  uprising, 
Hard  by  yonder  widening  stream  ? 

And  beyond,  the  tufted  meadows, 
Where  the  sunbeams  faintly  gleam  ? 

"Well,  in  ages  long  since  buried, 

In  the  dead  sea  of  the  Past, 
Lived  beneath  those  towers,  a  scion 

Of  a  race,  extinct  at  last. 

"He  was  young,  and  tall,  and  handsome, 
Loved  by  all  who  knew  him  well, 

Petted  by  each  maid  and  matron, 
Worshipped  by  each  Village  Belle. 


THE    HAUNTED    BELL  93 

"But  he  loved  a  Gipsy  maiden, 

Born  beneath  the  greenwood  tree  ; 
Loved  her  form,  so  lithe  and  graceful, 

Loved  her  artless  modesty. 

"And  he  wooed  her  in  the  forest, 

Gained  her  love,  and  stole  her  heart, 
Vowed  that  come  what  would  in  future, 

He  and  she  should  never  part. 

"Soon  the  wedding  night  was  stated, 

When  the  youthful  pair  should  wed, 
And  a  trousseau  was  imported 

For  the  Gipsy  Maid,  'tis  said. 

"Just  before  the  stroke  of  midnight, 

When  the  festive  chimes  would  peal, 
On  the  eve  of  'Merry  Christmas,' 

At  the  Chancel  they  would  kneel. 

"Then,  in  holy  bonds  united, 

They  would  roam  beyond  the  sea. 
And  sojourning  long  in  Europe, 

All  its  storied  wonders  see. 

"But  alas !  the  dusky  maiden. 

Loved  in  vain  the  handsome  youth, 
For  his  lips  had  oft'  deceived  her, 

Uttered  lies  instead  of  truth. 

"So,  at  length  the  time  approached, 

When  the  wedding  should  take  place, 
And  the  Abbey  pews  were  crowded 

By  the  white  and  dusky  race. 

"Stood  the  Bride  before  the  altar, 

To  her  waist  her  dark  hair  fell, 
Often  she  would  scan  the  doorway, 

For  the  youth  she  loved  so  well. 

"But  alas  !  in  vain  she  waited, 

Onward  swept  the  hands  of  time, 
Out  upon  the  sea.  her  lover 

Neared  a  far-off,  distant  clime  ! — 

"As  a  flower,  cut  down  and  withered, 

Faded  fast  the  Gipsy  Maid, 
And  when  next  the  myrtle  blossomed 

She  beneath  the  grass  was  laid. 

"And  still,  upon  the  hour  of  midnight, 
In  the  merry  Christmas  time, 


94  THOUGHTS. 

Peals  the  haunted  bell  of  Linda, 
With  a  blood-congealing  chime. 

"High  within  the  ruined  belfry, 
Mouldy  with  the  damp  of  years, 

In  the  sweeping  storms  of  winter, 
Its  strange  pealing  greets  the  ear. 

'•Rung  without  the  aid  of  mortal, 
Swayed  by  some  unearthly  power, 

Never-failing,  ever-wailing. 
At  the  solemn  midnight  hour. 


THOUGHTS. 

Patience  comes  from  God, 

So  does  love. 

Possess  yourself  of  both, 

Blessings  they  will  prove — 

The  maiden  does  not  live  who  does  not  love 

Some  object  here  below,  or  there  Above. 

There  are  loved  ones  in  heaven,  and  sad  to  tell, 

There  are  many  loved  ones  languishing  in  hell. 

No  two  notes  are  the  same  in  any  key, 

Yet  united,  they  will  thrill  in  harmony, 

It  is  just  the  same  in  life,  pain  and  pleasure, 

Blend  and  interlace  in  life's  wild  measure. 

Many  will  come  up  through  tribulation, 

To  sing  with  those  who  are  in  exaltation. 

Many  will  be  joined  to  heaven's  sweet  choir, 

Who  have  passed  through  sorrow's  chastening  fire. 

Many  will  be  welcomed  through  the  portal, 

Who  were  rejected  and  despised  while  mortal. 

Many  who  on  earth  were  poor  and  lowly, 

Will  mingle  their  glad  voices  with  the  holy. 

Many  who  on  earth  were  spurned,  forsaken, 

The  golden  harps  of  seraphs  shall  awaken 

To  strains  which  never  fall  on  mortal  hearing, 

Save  to  those  who  death's  confines  are  nearing. 


A    SERENADE.  95 


A  SERENADE. 

My  long-silent  harp 

I  now  wake  for  thee, 
Fair  Dora,  thou  fairest 

Of  women  to  me. 
Thy  charms  I  shall  sing 

In  this  uncultured  lay, 
So  listen,  sweet  maiden, 

O,  listen,  I  pray. 

Lean  out  from  your  lattice, 

The  night-wind  is  soft, 
And  fair  Luna  rides 

In  the  blue  vault  aloft, 
And  sheds  her  bright  radiance 

O'er  mountains  and  streams, 
And  the  earth  lies,  entranced, 

In  her  soft  mellow  beams. 

My  gondola  rocks 

On  the  breast  of  the  lake, 
And  the  night-winds  re-echo 

The  strains  I  awake  ; 
My  "gondolier"  sits 

With  his  hand  on  the  oar, 
And  his  dreamy  gaze  fixed 

On  the  green-wooded  shore. 

So,  Dora,  sweet  Dora, 

To  thee  I  would  raise 
From  my  love-burdened  soul, 

This  new  song  of  praise  ; 
Thou  hast  smiled  on  me  sweetly, 

Thy  hand  I  have  pressed, 
And  those  golden-hued  tresses, 

I  oft'  have  caressed. 

I  have  held  thy  lithe  form 

In  a  lover's  embrace, 
And  noted  with  pleasure 

Its  wonderful  grace, 
I  have  listened  enraptured 

To  your  voice  in  song, 
And  longed  to  possess  thee, 

O,  did  I  do  wrong  ? 


g6  A    SERENADE. 

I  would  give  all  the  world,  love, 

To  call  you  my  bride, 
O,  think  then  how  sweetly, 

The  bright  hours  would  glide, 
In  love  we  would  revel 

While  years  rolled  along, 
And  our  days  would  pass  by, 

Filled  with  music,  with  song. 

O,  fair  Lady  mine  ! 

O,  sweet  Lady  mine  ! 
Give  me  one  more  glance 

From  those  dark  eyes  of  thine 
There,  now  one  more  wave 

Of  thy  white  jeweled  hand 
And  I'll  steer  my  gondola 

For  yon  distant  strand. 

So  adieu,  fare-thee-well, 

O,  thou  loved  of  my  heart, 
May  there  soon  come  a  time, 

When  we  two  shall  not  part  ; 
Hark  !  the  convent  bell  rings 

At  the  first  break  of  day, 
Aryd  I  dare  not  linger 

Au  revoir,  I'm  away. 


ROBERT    BURNS.  97 


ROBERT  BURNS. 

On  the  green  banks  of  Ayr,  where  Burns  sang  so  sweetly, 
The  warm  light  of  heaven  first  dawned  on  my  sight, 
And  kind  friends  were  there  who  enraptured  did  greet  me, 
And  prayed  that  my  life  should  be  joyous  und  bright. 

But  I  need  not  sing  of  the  beauties  which  cluster, 
In  careless  profusion  around  that  dear  stream, 
For  Burns  the  sweet  bard,  threw  a  ne'er  dying  lustre, 
On  every  fine  prospect  he  took  for  his  theme. 

The  hills  he  has  painted  in  Nature's  own  glory, — 
The  vale  and  the  meadow,  the  wood  and  the  glen, 
Each  has  been  made  to  unfold  its  own  story 
By  one  of  the  greatest,  the  grandest  of  pens. 

No  other  bard  ever  painted  so  graphic, 

The  lights  and  the  shades  of  old  Nature's  attire, 

No  other  bard  ever  sang  so  seraphic, 

Or  threw  into  language  such  pathos  and  fire. 

He  sang  of  the  "gowans,"  he  sang  of  the  "heather,'' 
He  sang  of  the  daisy  which  grew  on  the  plains, 
He  sang  of  the  birds,  of  their  plumage  and  feather, 
And  rivalled  the  lark  with  his  heart-melting  strains. 

He  sang,  O,  so  warmly,  of  sweet  "Afton  Water," 
Of  his  "Mary"  asleep  by  the  murmering  stream, 
He  implored  it  to  flow  o'er  its  rocky  bed  softer, 
To  flow  gently  on,  to  disturb  not  her  dream. 

"Alloway  Auld  Kirk,"  where  old  "Tam-o-shanter," 
Saw  the  "Witch-dance"  is  familiar  to  all, 
His  "Address  to  the  Deil,"  and  "Rab-the-Ranter," 
Are  racy  and  humorous,  amusing  and  droll. 

His  sweetly  sad  verses  to  "Mary  in  Heaven," 
Are  the  finest  and  grandest  e'er  wove  into  song. 
O,  how  his  warm  heart  must  have  been  riven, 
To  hear  of  her  death,  so  fair  and  so  young. 


98  ROBERT    BURNS. 

He  sang  of  "Jean  Armour,"  with  warmth  and  emotion, 
He  sang  of  the  "Cotter"  returning  from  work, 
He  wrote  long  epistles  to  show  his  devotion 
To  old  John  Lapraik  "the  bard  of  Muirkirk.'' 

He  roved  on  the  banks  of  the  clear-winding  "Ayr," 
When  the  sun  bathed  the  birks  and  the  braes  in  its  light, 
His  bosom  all  racked  with  the  pangs  of  despair, 
The  beauties  of  Nature  exposed  to  his  sight. 

He  paused  on  the  banks  of  the  historic  river, 

And  gazed  at  the  plantains  around  "Ballochmyle,'' 

He  saw  the  tall  aspens  like  silver,  a-quiver,  ' 

And  the  green  sloping  meadow,  the  old-fashioned  stile. 

And  the  old  farm-house,  the  kye  grazing  'round  it, 
The  "burn"  flowing  down  through  its  fringes  of  grass, — 
The  maid  in  the  dell,  by  wild  hazel  surrounded, 
A  shy  Scottish  maiden,  a  fair  little  lass. 

And  these  lovely  scenes  thrilled  his  warm  heart, 
And  set  all  his  rich  glowing  nature  on  fire, 
Through  his  quick  brain  burning  fancies  would  dart, 
And  his  pen  would  portray  them  in  richest  attire. 

But  now  the  sweet  harp  which  he  once  woke  with  pleasure, 
Is  lying  unstrung  on  his  dear  native  plains, 
No  bard  has  been  found  who  can  sing  to  his  measure, 
Such  sweet  plaintive  songs,  such  soul-stirring  strains. 

But  need  we  repine,  though  the  harp  lies  unstrung  ; 
It  was  born  with  his  birth  and  died  with  his  death, 
But  the  bard  who  awoke  it  will  be  sweetly  sung, 
While  minstrels  and  poets  have  being  and  breath. 


TO  A  FRIEND.  99 


TO  A  FRIEND. 

Farewell,  farewell,  my  faithful  friend, 

I  bid  you  now  a  fond  adieu, 
No  matter  where  my  foot-steps  tend, 

My  brightest  thoughts  shall  be  of  you. 

Your  tender  smile  I  still  shall  see, 
Though  you  are  far  away  from  here, 

Let  weal  or  woe  abide  with  me, 
One  thought  of  you  my  heart  shall  cheer. 

When  clouds  obscure  the  light  of  day, 
And  cares  encompass  me  around, 

When  life  to  me  seems  cold  and  gray, 
Your  voice  would  be  a  welcome  sound. 

Could  I  but  hear  its  dulcet  tone, 
And  see  those  eyes  of  dusky  light, 

Those  cheeks  like  roses  freshly  blown, 

My  cares  and  doubts  would  take  their  flight. 

When,  lonely  in  the  summer  eves, 
I  roam  beside  the  rippling  streams, 

My  way  festooned  with  vines  and  leaves, 
Turned  golden  by  the  sun's  soft  beams. 

When  birds  are  mating  in  the  grove, 
And  flowers  are  blooming  on  the  lea, 

Then  my  soul  shall  swell  with  love, 
For  thee,  dear  Friend,  for  none  but  thee. 

But  do  not  grieve  though  we  must  part, 
Perhaps,  alas  !  to  meet  no  more  ; 

If  love  and  virtue  be  our  chart, 

We'll  meet  again  on  heaven's  shore. 

There,  within  that  sacred  place, 
No  storms  can  overwhelm  our  soul 

But,  hemmed  in  by  a  Saviour's  grace, 
We'll  live  and  love  while  ages  roll. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 


ERRATA. 


The  word  "bridges"  in  the  last  line  of  the  second  paragraph 
on  page  13,  should  read  "hedges." 


THF 

FORNU 

LOS  A." 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A      000071  095  4 


PS 

.  21*29 
M782A17 
1386 


